


Turn It Up

by Violet_Jones



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Coming Out, First Time, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pump Up The Volume AU, Slow Burn, pirate radio DJ Mickey, pseudo-goth dandy Ian, recounted gay bashing, teen suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-08 09:33:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 30,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11078859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violet_Jones/pseuds/Violet_Jones
Summary: Pump Up The Volume AU - 1990: High school senior, Mickey Milkovich has a secret identity as pirate radio personality Hard Harry. Teenage Ian Gallagher has a crush on the mysterious stranger and desperately wants to unmask the voice that has him enraptured. What starts as a prank to blow off adolescent steam, becomes a movement larger than the instigator himself, capable of helping to bring down the whole school system.Written for Gallavich Week 2017 - Day 1 - General AUs





	1. The Scene Is Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Interlaced throughout the story is a lot of direct dialogue and prose from the movie this is based on, written by Allan Moyle. Those teen angst poems are NOT mine, for example. Lol. And a lot Harry's speeches on the radio are enhanced and embellished, but still using direct language from the script. Adaptation is hard, people!
> 
> I made some killer playlists for these versions of the characters when I first started writing this, so please check them out if you're so inclined. Mickey grew up into lots of different types of punk, and Ian grew up into mainly new wave genres.
> 
> [NewWave!Ian Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/123084981/playlist/4vr9kwJ9TeUpMXMxHVd3I3)
> 
> [Punk!Mickey Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/123084981/playlist/1a0x5L7ZzMONOSBsFlpip0)
> 
> Special thanks to [koganphrancis](http://koganphrancis.tumblr.com/) for the notes, feedback, and lite beta-reading! And to [ivegotitbad](http://ivegotitbad.tumblr.com/) and [LanJev](http://lanjev.tumblr.com/) for the support and encouragement! ❤  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ ](http://i.imgur.com/ZJQrh7a.jpg?1)

“There is only what _is_. The what _should be_ never did exist, but people keep trying to live up to it. There is only what _is_.”  
  
―Lenny Bruce 

  


***

  


**Paradise Valley, Arizona, 1990**

“ _You ever get the feelin’ that everything in America is completely fucked up? You know that feelin’? That the whole country is just like one inch away from sayin’, ‘That’s it! Forget it! Push the goddamn red button already!’ Think about it. Everything’s polluted: the environment, the government, the schools, you name it. Speakin’ of schools, I was walkin’ the hallowed halls the other day, and I asked myself, ‘Is there life after high school? Because I can’t face tomorrow, let alone a whole year of this shit.’ Yeah, you got it, folks, it’s me again with a little ‘fuck you’ attitude for all you uptight twats out there in Whitebread Land. All you nice people livin’ in the middle of America, the beautiful. Let’s see, we’re on 92.1 FM tonight. It’s a nice, clean little band so far, no one else is usin’ it. The price is right! I got my Wild Cherry Pepsi, my Camel Filters, and my Blackjack Cherry gum. And yes, folks, you guessed it, tonight I’m as horny as a ten-peckered owl, so stay tuned, cuz this is Hard Harry, remindin’ you to eat your cereal with a fork, and do your homework in the dark.”_

The landscape is practically beige as far as the eye can see. There seems to be an endless supply of dirt everywhere, being as they’re surrounded by desert. It’s _dusty_. That’s the most memorable word the average teenager in Paradise Valley would probably use to describe their town. If prompted for a second word, they’d most likely say, _boring_. It was just another fine, upstanding suburb sprawling out from some faceless city in Bumfuck, Nowhere. They weren’t too terribly far from Phoenix, but isolated enough that the nearest ‘major’ city was Scottsdale. Not exactly an urban mecca of liberal values. Not a lot of room to be different or stand out. Previous generations have dutifully ensured the homogenization of values and norms of conduct quite well. You’re expected to act a certain way, and that’s it. No room for refusal or argument. Obey, etcetera.

The public school they’re forced to attend is nothing fancy. _Hubert H. Humphrey High._ It looks like every other public school in America. Built in the last 30 years. A series of big brick and plaster boxes with panel ceilings and a scattering of large soul-sucking fluorescent overhead lights that make you want to kill yourself, or at least just constantly wear sunglasses indoors (prohibited by School Rule #27). It has some outdoor spaces to hang out in, though, so you can kind of escape the crowd when you want to. For outsiders, that can be a lot of the time.

The faculty is by far the worst thing about the place. They have one of those super-phony, power-tripping, ladder-climbing bitch principals, who puts on a big show of ruling with an iron fist. Practically getting off on it, in fact. Her name is Linda Karib, and as a white muslim widow, and mother of three, she has a strictness setting constantly set to maximum overdrive. Like she has something to prove. You can’t get any more no-nonsense. Her chief disciplinarian is former football coach, current vice principal, and perpetual meathead, Ed Morris. He pretty much operates as more of a hired goon than anything else. He doles out the punishments based on judgements passed down from Her Majesty. Then there’s head guidance counselor, Dave Devers. He conducts ‘behavioral inquiries’ like he’s some kinda imitation one-man Gestapo; a psychological informant who makes recommendations directly to Karib. Finally, you have the newest board of education member, Terry Milkovich, acting School Commissioner, now residing in the Paradise Hills neighborhood with his wife and kids.

Tonight is like any other random weekday night in their town. Nothing to do, nowhere to go. Everyone just kinda sits around and listens to the radio, either imagining themselves a much brighter future, or just wallowing in the misery of the present.

A new guy had started broadcasting recently, switching around on the dial depending on the signal he could invade. He calls his show _The_ _Happy Harry Hard-on Hour_. It’s pretty cool. No one in their area has ever taken over an F.M. channel before and used it to air a show every day, but suddenly here’s this guy. He’s young. He’s kind of obnoxious. His sense of humor is juvenile, and his ideas aren’t necessarily fully developed, but there’s something about him. A daring, a wit, a certain charm. Something challenging the status quo that so many of them feel trapped in. He also plays music no one else plays. He uses filthy language, and he’s obsessed with his dick. He comes on every night at 10 PM and does whatever he wants. Just vomits it out for their little corner of the world to hear if they want to.

You could tell he assumed no one was really listening in the earlier days, but he kept giving out a P.O. Box address anyway, should anyone listen and want to provide feedback. He seemed genuinely surprised when he started receiving letters, and ended up getting a phone line so he could start calling people back on the air.

It was becoming a nightly ritual, spreading through different social groups at school like wildfire.

The real kicker of it all is that no one knows who the fuck Hard Harry is. There’s this guy walking among them in the halls, going about his normal high school business by day, then worming his way into their ears at night. A fascinating enigma of a distraction that saves the waking hours from completely sucking.

Teenagers get so wrapped up in their own inner drama, little awareness is paid to the shared pain and disinterest their peers are experiencing around them. What the kids suffering their suburban nightmare in silence right then fail to realize is that those listening to that broadcast, weren’t just punks donning liberty-spiked hair, thrashing in some empty parking lot, chugging stolen 40s; or suspended pregnant girls whose parents were barely speaking to her, shunned by her friends, with nothing better to do; or closeted gay kids longing to telepathically locate just one other gay kid somewhere nearby that they could talk to; or privileged, goody-two shoes, honor students, alienated in silence, pretending 24/7; or suicidal nerds overlooked by everyone, apathetic to whether anyone’s listening anymore or not. It was all of them.

They were all listening. It was their collective secret. They just didn’t know it yet.

  


* * *

  


Mickey Milkovich, recent Chicago transplant, son of Terry and Doreen, is currently in his basement room pretending to jerk off into a microphone, while unnumbered faceless ne’er-do-wells listen in, for whatever reason. Mickey’s still not sure why people bother. He doesn’t even find himself interesting, he’s just looking for ways to pass the time. Waiting to graduate and escape to college feels pretty much like the slow serving of a prison sentence on most days, so he has to find little ways to rebel and feel alive. He keeps it all well under his father’s radar, for the sake of his own health and sanity. Terry is here to reform county schools and lead by example with his good, old-fashioned, god-fearing, All-American family, after all. Can’t reflect anything other than normal standards of decency onto him. They’ve only been here a matter of months, and deliberations on Terry’s character are still being made.

Mickey’s unpaid, unsolicited moonlighting gig as Hard Harry is one of his biggest secrets, of which there are a good number accrued already, despite his youth. This is the thing he’s 99% certain no one will ever find out about him, though: He’s a radio pirate. It sounds a lot cooler than it is. He doesn’t have two swords, a weird hat, an eyepatch, a peg leg, or a chest full of treasure. All he has is a hodgepodge of vintage to lightly used sound and longwave radio equipment for playing back, recording, and broadcasting his illegal speech and uncleared music selections.

He’s pretty sure no more than like 15 people bother tuning in, but it’s something. He started doing it thinking he’d be broadcasting to no one, and that whoever happened to stumble upon him in the middle of a rant or a Black Flag song would quickly tire and move on. But now he has these _fans_. A handful of people who write to him like he’s some kinda fuckin’ pen pal or some shit, except the cool part is he doesn’t have to write back. He just has to talk. To _no one_. Just the air in front of him. The mic being inanimate renders Mickey somehow immune to the stage fright he would surely be crippled by should he be asked to behave the same way, or perform the whole thing in front of a live audience. The people behind the ears listening to him speak are merely abstractions. The people behind the hands writing him letters are just fictitious characters he’d invented and given all his own imagined physical attributes to.

In this place, and in this time, he can do whatever the fuck he wants. He hates society and he hates rules. All founded on bullshit morality that’s outdated and unfounded in reality or based on actual human nature. There’s nothing uptight, law-abiding citizens despise more than ‘coarse language’ and sexuality. One day that summer, Mickey had been lying around trying to think of the last thing his fucking prick of a father would want to hear him doing on the air, if he ever found out he was pirating shit out of his bedroom, using some of the very equipment he’d gifted to him with his own hands. Mickey had been high at the time, and randomly started touching himself. That’s when lightning had struck. He’d laughed for nearly a full hour when it occurred to him.

Turns out, it isn’t hard to simulate jacking off into a mic. A soft slapping sound against his fist, or the back of his neck is enough to do it. Add some moaning and groaning, some muttering of filthy shit, and there you have it. People actually think he’s really doing it, but truth be told, the idea of doing it on air, for real, freaks Mickey the fuck out. Putting the idea of it in people’s minds is enough. He isn’t embarrassed to _pretend_.

So now, one of the main things Mickey is known for is sex. Which is pretty ironic, considering his level of actual experience. He’s gotten a couple of sloppy blowjobs, but that’s pretty much all she wrote. He’s probably so good at faking masturbation, because it’s all he really knows in terms of getting off.

The bedroom he built himself in the basement is like his own private universe where he gets to be a completely different person than the one that walks around in the world. Shit, even just walking around the rest of his own house, he wears an invisible mask. He’d soundproofed his space, and installed deadbolt locks on both the indoor entrance and the back door, outside of which he had his own private patio area, which contained one chair, and an ashtray stand that he kept hidden behind some crates. His parents are as clueless about his smoking habit as they are about everything else. So is his sister, Mandy, who he seems to have about zero in common with anymore.

They’re only two years apart, but they have older brothers too, who’ve long since graduated and fled the scene. Mickey is the youngest boy, so he’s always had something to prove to the older ones. Mandy is the only girl, so it’s always been easy to torment and pester her, all together in their little macho gang. After Tony and Jaime were gone, and Mickey hit puberty, he and his sister drifted farther and farther apart. He became more and more introverted, and she became over-aggressive and full of herself. Her style and her personality are now ridiculous and annoying to Mickey.

Rather than unite in their hatred for their parents, Mickey prefers to be alone, and Mandy prefers to be anywhere but home. They tend to stay out of each other’s ways, rarely crossing paths despite residing under the same roof. Mickey suspects she’d recently found a new boyfriend. She’s never around enough to notice any odd behavior on his part.

Behind his locked basement door, Mickey is untouchable.

  


* * *

  


Ian Gallagher is the number one reason Mandy’s almost never to be seen around the Milkovich household these days. Her parents have only seen passing glimpses of him thus far, but they already have opinions about him anyway. He can tell they’re not exactly thrilled with his appearance. He knows how it goes in parent’s minds. . . he’s attractive, but his taste in clothes. . . the color choice, or lack thereof, is _disturbing_ to them. Ian isn’t exactly a goth _per se_ , but he isn’t _not_ a goth either. He just so happens to like wearing black clothes and listening to melancholy new wave music. He didn’t choose the style, it chose him. He thinks about dying his hair black all the time, but he’s a bit scared now, because his older brother, Lip, bleached his dirty blond hair out to that bottle white shit at the beginning of summer, and Ian is of the opinion that he looks fucking terrible. So despite hating his own goofy, bright orange hair, he’s keeping it as is for now.

He doesn’t really understand his brother much anymore. They’ve been growing apart in recent years, and he’s not completely sure why. Somewhere around last year, Lip was suddenly this hardcore wannabe gutter punk, except he was in suburbia, and the gutters were too clean and well-kept to do much griming. There was only ever a smattering of dust like everywhere else in the valley. Ian doesn’t really see himself as anything, but he’s not a punk, and he’s not really a goth. He likes vintage clothes, with mod-ish leanings, and maybe a little bit of pomp and flair. He has to do _something_ to come off at least the slightest bit interesting. He grew bored of t-shirts and jeans day-in, day-out, so he figured his clothes were a good place to start.

Ian knows it’s more than just music or style that divides him and Lip, though. They both have their own ways of coping with their fucked up family stuff, and maybe that means doing their own thing for a while. They still hang out sometimes, but it usually doesn’t last very long. Brief interludes here and there when they allow themselves to catch up and have a laugh. They usually get high and watch something on TV, or listen to an album they can both agree on (there’s little crossover taste to choose from). They’ll sometimes talk about political shit, and Ian always wonders what the hell is wrong with Lip that he doesn’t care to fulfill his potential and put forth any effort in school. It’s not like Ian is a model student, but he cares about the subjects he likes, at least. He tries in _most_ of his classes. Lip is way smarter than him, and capable of doing well without even trying probably half as much, but he refuses to even net satisfactory grades. It bugs the crap out of Ian, because he knows if it were him, he’d use the advantage to get himself a full ride to college somewhere far, far away from here. . . somewhere on the east coast. Some place intimidating. He’d use his brains to completely reinvent himself. But he’s not Lip. And Lip doesn’t care enough to heed his little brother’s advice.

Ian’s hanging out in Lip’s crudely converted garage bedroom, passing a bong back and forth, the first time he hears _Happy Harry Hard-on_.

It immediately excites him, and he’s not exactly sure why. It’s just some dude talking, obviously young, given the way he rants about teachers and parents, with a machine deepening and disguising his real voice in order to protect his identity. He’s not even saying anything particularly new or interesting, but it’s honest and it’s confrontational. The problem is that no one around here ever acts like that out in the open, so despite the aimless vibe of starting shit just to rain down chaos upon the adult masses of their lame-ass town, Ian still finds it impressive. The more he listens, the more he finds hidden depth in it, and he starts to wonder. . .

Ian’s pretty sure the main thing driving a wedge between him and Lip, on _his_ end at least, is that he’s started embracing the fact that he’s gay. It isn’t something he’s disclosed to anyone in his family yet, and he’s 50/50 on whether it’ll be a big deal or not. He honestly doesn’t know. But Lip is just 14 months older than Ian, and even though he has a dirty and rude appearance these days, he still does pretty well with a certain kind of lady. He’s 100% hetero horndog, and Ian finds it kind of off-putting. Lip’s reaction to Ian’s attraction to guys is the one he cares about most. His brother’s anti-establishment leanings would indicate support for anything non-conforming, but Lip also likes to describe Ian’s favorite bands as ‘art fag bullshit.’ Still, Ian’s been thinking about it more and more lately. . . what it would be like to tell Lip. . . how he would do it. . . if it would bring them closer together again, or tear them irrevocably apart once and for all.

Something about Hard Harry makes Ian sense a gay subtext some of the time. Not always, but it’s there. For example, anytime Harry’s doing his infantile masturbation routine, which Ian does admit has a certain appeal to his senses, he never talks about girls. He never talks about pussy, it’s always about his own dick. Sure, teenage guys are pretty obsessed with their own anatomy, generally speaking, but come on. . . no mention of tits? No use of pronouns? Ian’s strained his ears, and he can never tell for sure one way or the other. . . what Harry’s sexuality could possibly be. The prospect excites him, though. He decides to start sending in letters. Ian’s been inspired lately, filling up his composition notebook with poetry about the mysterious provocateur invading his life.

The first time Harry reads one on air, Ian almost melts into the mattress beneath him. He can’t stop smiling, smothering his face in a pillow, beet red with embarrassment, even though he took every measure to keep himself completely anonymous: No signature, no return address, no phone number enclosed. He’d also avoided indicating his gender in the body of the final draft. It allowed him to make certain innuendos without freaking the guy out. He continues that tradition in his subsequent letters, and in order to distinguish himself even further, he always writes in black ink on blood red stationery. He’s started hearing a kind of fondness in Harry’s robot-tinged voice whenever he reads the words aloud, like maybe he kind of savors them a little bit. He’s even taken to calling Ian ‘Eat Me, Beat Me’ in reference to a line in that first red letter.

“I need to figure out who Hard Harry actually is, Mands. Can you imagine?” says Ian, as he makes his way to Creative Writing class one morning.

Mandy rolls her eyes, meandering along by Ian’s side at his uncharacteristic daydreamer’s pace. “You obviously just have a crush on him,” she mutters discreetly, “and you don’t even know if he’s gay. Or if he even goes to this specific school, for that matter.”

She’s one in a very small circle of people who know of Ian’s homo leanings, and while she encourages him to reach out for all plausibly obtainable dick, of which there is not much ‘round these parts, she also cautions him against crushing on straight guys, worried on his behalf for what could happen should they take it the worst kind of way.

They haven’t been friends long, as Mandy and her brother only started at the outset of the school year, which was only approaching two months in. Still, they have an easy camaraderie and it feels as if they’ve known each other a lot longer than they really have. They’re not exactly the same, which keeps things interesting, but they’re similar enough that they see eye to eye on most things. Mandy wears a lot of vintage clothes too, and one of their favorite pastimes is driving around to different re-sell places in the boonies, expanding the fabulousness of their closets one piece at a time. She’s usually most inclined to look like a rockabilly pin-up girl from the 1950s, and she listens to a lot of feminist punk music, as well as 40s jazz. She does impeccable cat-eye make-up and bold lipstick every single day. She’s a legend, in Ian’s mind.

“Look, the way he attacks and seems personally offended by this place, I think it’s safe to say this is where he goes. Plus, I already gave you my ever-growing list of suspicions about his sexual identity,” says Ian. “There are a lot of theories to be considered, for sure, but it’s increasingly unlikely that he’s just a regular, vanilla straight. The odds are statistically against it.”

“Aren’t you failing Math already?” Mandy asks with incredulity.

“Fuck off. Why can’t you let me have this?”

She laughs. “Have what exactly? You’re no closer to figuring out who he is than anyone else is. Plus, unmasking this guy could be a total wash. He’s probly just some geek you wouldn’t give two shits about if you actually met. You’re messing with a dangerous fantasy.”

“ _Dangerous_? _Fantasy_? If you’re trying to discourage me, it isn’t working. You have to use _stop_ words, dear.”

“Here’s your stop word, _dear_ ,” she responds, flipping him off with both middle fingers in an up yours motion, then spinning off to head in a different direction to her own class, leaving him laughing in her wake.

  


* * *

  


Mickey ducks his head, a slight blush creeping up his neck as the teacher reads the final passage of his short story out loud to the whole class. He knows most people associate sci-fi with dork-ass, nondescript guys in glasses, so he’s hoping the teacher doesn’t get a chance to call him out as the writer before the bell rings. Because, despite his brash pirate radio DJ persona, he is in fact a pretty damn nondescript guy in glasses, practically blending into the wood of the unyielding school desk he’s crammed into.

_“. . .and so then the logicars questioned the few remaining despars more and more. They began to fade away until there was nothing left of them. And they disappeared from the face of the earth,”_ Miss Sheila concludes. “Hmm? pretty good huh? Leading with the heart, not the hand. Right?”

Mickey tenses further and slumps his shoulders, trying to make himself smaller in his hard seat, a silent litany of, ‘ _Please don’t, please don’t_ ,’ playing on an endless loop in his head.

“Mickey? Care to tell us what you were thinking when you wrote this?”

_Fuck_. There’s nothing he’d rather do less than explain his writing to a roomful of people. He hates being called out.

“Uh. . .” he looks up, stalling, eyes flitting to the right, and accidentally locking with a hot redhead he’s seen hanging around his sister from afar. “I don’t know. I wrote it late last night.”

“Well, that much is obvious. It’s practically illegible.”

He gulps. _Great_. The whole class is laughing at him now. He shifts uncomfortably, twisting his ankle around the bottom of the desk leg and squeezing it with his inner foot like an anchor to ground him. He catches the redhead’s eyes again without meaning to. They’re green.

“I was hoping you’d share your _feelings_ about the piece?” the teacher presses.

Mickey rolls his lips up into his mouth, raising his eyebrows like he does when he feels tongue-tied. His mind grasps for something, _anything_ to say that can function as some half-assed explanation of his _process_ or whatever the fuck it is she wants him to say.

To his eternal relief, the bell finally rings out, signaling the end of the period.

“Saved by the bell!” she exclaims cheesily.

Miss Sheila is a total kook. Former flower child, as far as Mickey can tell. Her last name is Walker, but she won’t let the students call her by it. So, like a bunch of small children in kindergarden waiting around for recess, they call her Miss Sheila. Her exuberance is definitely annoying, but she’s a knowledgeable and interesting teacher, nonetheless, so Mickey doesn’t feel any inclination to give her any shit. Except, she calls out to him as he’s gathering his things to leave. The redhead looks over at him again before leaving the room. He hasn’t really paid attention to his name before, and now he suddenly wishes he was better at caring to study his immediate surroundings and the people in them.

The teacher tries to get him to join the school paper, praising him for his way with words, and Mickey makes some weak excuses about homework, and being too busy, before beating a hasty retreat. It’s lunchtime, and he’s got a date with an empty set of stairs, an autobiography, and aPB&J he made himself that morning, two minutes before walking out the door.

After that, it’s Calculus, then Biology Lab, and then he has a free period, which he uses by hitting up the library to drop off the book he’d finished on his lunch break. He sets it down on the small counter some student aide usually mans, when who should pop up from behind said counter, but the guy that kept looking at him in class earlier.

Why is he suddenly everywhere?

Mickey finds his gaze naturally lowering to the countertop, watching the way the guy’s long, pale fingers roam over the cover of the book he’d just tossed down. Mickey bites his lip as he waits for him to speak. Or do his job, and check the book back in, or something.

“Hey,” the guy finally says.

“Hi,” Mickey mumbles quietly.

“You’re in my Creative Writing class, right?”

“Guess so,” he shrugs, rubbing at the back of his neck. He accidentally makes eye contact again. He can’t tell if the guy’s amused, or annoyed. Maybe both.

“ _How to Talk Dirty and Influence People,”_ the guy reads the title aloud. “Who’s Lenny Bruce?”

“Um. . . Legendary comedian?”

“Oh. Cool. Talking dirty, huh?”

Mickey chances another look and finds the boy with a suggestive eyebrow lifted, tongue poking out a little, teasing him. He feels his face flush again, and clams up, eyes darting away to look at a nearby bookshelf.

The redhead turns away to do something, promptly emitting an ominous, “Uh oh. You’re in trouble.”

Mickey freezes for a moment. He can’t possibly be made by _this guy_. By this book. Yeah, sure, the title is a fucking dead giveaway, and he should’ve thought twice before checking it out at school just like that, but still. No way this one kid is gonna connect the dots, make some kinda federal case out of it, and blow his cover.

The guy must be able to see the panic etched on his face, because he takes pity, and deadpans, “You owe 25¢ in late fees.”

Rather than relief washing over him, Mickey just stays on high alert, digging around in the pocket of his jeans for a quarter. When he finds one, he tosses it on the counter without fanfare.

The dude is still trying to make conversation apparently. “So, your story. . . the one that Sheila read aloud today. . . it was pretty good.” Mickey’s pretty sure he has no business being here any longer. He’s not even sure where to look, much less what to say. “This book any good?” the guy tries again, while Mickey just gapes. “Cat got your tongue?” he finally asks, green eyes wide, and incredulous. He’s definitely exasperated with Mickey now.

“It’s pretty alright,” he finally sputters, then his feet seem to start working again, and he’s fucking booking it out of the library like it’s about to burn to the ground around him.

Later that night, he’s relaxing comfortably in his inner sanctum, smoking a cigarette, doing his thing on the airwaves.

“Everyone’s always talkin’ about _the system_. The system! And the 60s! And how cool it was! Oh, fuckin’ kumbaya, bitches, we’re gonna change the world. Where the hell did that shit get them? Huh? _Oh, come on, people now, smile on your brother, everybody get together, try to love one another right now._ Hey, the 90s called, and it has this to say. . .”

He plays an obnoxious song by The Descendants that’s about nothing, and under 30 seconds long. Then he plays it again for good measure.

“I hate the 60s! I hate schools! I hate principals, I hate vice principals. But you know who I reserve my most deep, most refined, truest hate for? Guidance counselors. And guess what Hard Harry managed to come across today that made him very happy? Moral hypocrisy at its finest, ladies and gentlemen! Some of you may know a girl who used to be in some of your classes, until she started showing up to school looking visibly pregnant. Not even a week later, she just disappears. Her name is Cheryl Biggs. This is an internal memo addressed from one Dave Devers, Guidance Douche extraordinaire to one Principal Linda Karib, Paradise Valley’s own Iron Lady. It reads: ‘ _I find Cheryl unremorseful about her delicate condition_ (bastard can’t even just say she’s knocked up), _and she appears unwilling to minimize its effects on the morale of the student population at large_.’ Because it’s everybody else’s business and problem, right? Guidance counselors. If they knew anything at all about career moves, do you really think they’d have ended up as _guidance counselors_? I think not! We need to get Ol’ Davey on the phone, and see if he cares to explain himself.”

Mickey uses a master list of county school board faculty phone numbers (one of the many documents he’d managed to smuggle out of his dad’s home office in those weekday hours between him getting out of school and his parents getting off work, when he could snoop around unencumbered) to call Devers at home. He poses as a legit radio personality, and gives the man some time and space to bluster and tout the ‘award-winning’ educational program in place at HHHH, and how successful it is for not only the county, but the entire state of Arizona. He sounds exactly like Terry, going on about how he runs the largest branch of the department in the state, like it’s his greatest triumph.

Once Mr. Devers is nice and comfortable, Mickey lobs the hardballs. “Is it not also true that your school in particular has one of the highest dropout percentages in all of Arizona? Is that at all related to your success story?”

_“Excuse me? I’m not sure where you’re getting these figures, but–”_

“And I did also want to ask specifically about the decision to suspend one Cheryl Biggs. My listeners are curious, what part did you play in that?”

_“I don’t know what you’re talking about. That wasn’t my decision.”_

“That’s not true, _sir_. And I quote, ‘ _Cheryl refuses to accept suggestions of a more positive mental attitude towards her health and future. I’m afraid I find no alternative, but to suggest suspension_.’ Verbatim. Are you denying you wrote this? I see your signature right here.”

_“Who is this? How did you get this number?”_

“Do you admit it, _sir_?”

_“Admit what?”_

“That you’re scum.”

_“Now wait just a minute–”_

“You interview a student, in your office, in confidence, get her to open up about something deeply personal, and then you rat on her? You betray her trust. Isn’t that right, _sir_? Is she gonna be welcomed back with open arms once that baby bump deflates and she’s a teen mom?”

The dial tone plays off Mr. Devers as he abandons the unexpected confrontation. Mickey chuckles disdainfully into the mic. “Well, would you look at that! Confronted with the truth in the face of his bold-faced lies, and he can’t fuckin’ hang. Who coulda predicted? Fuck anyone over the age of 20. They have no clue.”

  


* * *

  


Ian smiles wide, marveling at the way Harry manages to catch a school official in their own bullshit lies in front of an audience. Now he’s _really_ impressed. This is stepping up the game in a whole new way, which is surprising. Harry’s starting to show some action, rather than just big talk. How can that not make Ian want to know him even more?

He’s tried to temper this weird long-distance crush, but it’s impossible. He has nothing else compelling enough in his life to draw him away from the pull of the mystery man. He’s even started over-analyzing to the point of making illogical connections between the two of them, like how Harry is obsessed with cherry-flavored things, and Ian is a redhead like Cherry Valance from _The Outsiders_ , so therefore _obviously_ they’re meant to be.

In an attempt to distract himself, he’d thrown himself down on his bed after school that day and started reading that Lenny Bruce book that Mickey Milkovich had returned to him earlier. He supposes it was the title that got his attention initially, but it turns out to be really witty and iconoclastic. It’s interesting enough to make him locate Mickey’s picture in the first edition of the school paper that had run with all the names and photos of the new kids that year. He ponders over it a while, wondering if behind the wire-rimmed glasses and the quiet, nervous nature, there could lie a beating rebel heart, a sharp tongue, and a showman’s flair. After all, his writing is impressive. Ian’s never liked anything else he ever heard read aloud in that class until that morning. And besides, Mickey was pretty cute in an unassuming kind of way.

Ian’s pulled out of his thoughts as Harry replies to some letter that hadn’t really held his interest after the Devers conversation. “ _First of all,_ you’re _not screwed up. You’re having an un-screwed up reaction to a screwed up situation. You see? Feelin’ screwed up, in a screwed up place, at a screwed up time, doesn’t mean that_ youyourself _are screwed up. If you catch my drift._ ”

Harry calls back the number on the letter, and it turns out to be giggling girls that obviously made up some story to try and get a callback. “ _Yeah, real nice, ladies. Inventing false stories of incestuous molestation, A-plus! Give yourselves a fuckin’ round of applause for wastin’ our time and actin’ like dipshits. Let’s move on to somethin’ that’ll definitely be interesting_. . .”

Ian holds his breath, wondering if it’ll be his latest letter.

“‘Eat Me, Beat Me’ is back, everybody. . . with some more of this poetry nonsense. . .”

Ian closes his eyes and mouths the words as they’re read over the air.

“ _Every night, you enter me like a criminal. You break into my brain, but you’re no ordinary crook. You put your feet up, and you pop a Wild Cherry Pepsi, you start to party. You turn up my stereo. Songs I’ve never heard, but I move anyway. You get me crazy. I say, ‘Do it. Don’t care what, just do it. Jam me. Jack me. Push me. Pull me. Talk hard_.”

Ian exhales noisily and flips onto his stomach, burying his face into his bedclothes to muffle an anguished, pining scream.

“ _As usual, no name, no callback number, no nothing! Who are you? Always with the crimson red paper and the incredible penmanship. Huh, Red Letters? Where you at, Red? Whoever you are, you’re probly a lot like me. A legend in your own mind. But you know what? I bet in real life, you’re probly not that fuckin’ wild. I bet you’re kinda shy. Like so many of us, briskly walkin’ the halls, pretendin’ to be distracted. Hey! Red! Are you really this cool? Are you out there? Are you listening? I feel like I know you, and yet. . . We’ll never meet. . . So be it_.”

Ian knows that in a way he’s right. Ian doesn’t have to be so withholding, but there’s no way he can be up front about his identity without being sure first. He’s not gonna be that weird gay guy stalking some straight guy. If he ends up concluding Harry does not in fact bat for his team, it’ll be easy enough to just stop writing and remain an enigma forever. If things go well, then maybe he can just come out and say it. And besides all that, there’s something about figuring out Harry, before Ian himself can be figured out. It just feels like the way he needs to do it.

“ _Dear Hard Harry, do you think I should kill myself?_ ”

Ian looks up abruptly, staring at the small stereo on his desk. Could be another prank, but what if it isn’t? Harry dials up the kid’s number. Apparently, he’s of the same mind that he needs to determine how real the question is, and if there’s a real threat in it.

“ _You’re gonna kill yourself, eh?”_

_“That’s right.”_

_“How’re you gonna do it?”_

_“I’m gonna blow my fuckin’ head off.”_

_“Really? Damn, that’s serious. Why you wanna do that?”_

_“Cuz I’m all alone. I have no one_.” The kid starts crying, and Ian hears the shift in Harry’s tone, despite the voice modulator.

“ _Hey, look, I’m alone too. I didn’t talk to one single person today at school, aside from the teachers, when they asked me a question. I eat alone everyday. I hide out on a stairwell with a book, and just do my own thing._ ”

He’s obviously trying to win him over by relating to him, but it doesn’t work, because the line goes dead.

“ _Fuck, now I’m depressed. I feel like killing myself, but I’m too depressed to bother._ ”

He dials the guy’s number again and gets the tone indicating it’s off the hook.

“ _You have no idea what a person is really like. You think my parents know what the hell I get up to down here? Who cares who I should be? You think anyone knows me? I could be that anonymous nerd in Chem Lab, sittin’ across from you, starin’ at you so hard, but when you turn around, he tries to smile, but the smile just comes out all wrong, and you just think, ‘How pathetic!’ And he just looks away, and never looks back at you again. But hey, who cares? That’s my motto! So, sleep tight, Cheryl Biggs. Sleep tight, Mr. Devers. Sleep tight, Red._ ” He sighs. “ _Sleep tight, Mr. Serious. Maybe you’ll feel better tomorrow_.”

Ian takes notes to help himself remember all the small clues Harry’s given that could in any way help lead to discovering his identity. Tonight had yielded some pretty big fucking hints. Harry probably hadn’t thought twice about revealing how he spends a typical school lunch hour, but it was a silly move. Ian supposes the guy couldn’t see the persistence of someone like him coming.

At lunchtime the next day, Ian goes from stairwell to stairwell, on the hunt for quiet boys keeping to themselves. He checks the inside first, with no luck, then heads outside to walk around in the circular hilly path around campus with numerous dusty, concrete staircases spread throughout.

Finally, who should he spot, but one Mickey Milkovich, sitting near the bottom steps, hunched over off to the side, half a sad homemade sandwich in one hand, a book in the other.

Well, shit.

Ian skips down the remaining stairs, and hops in front of Mickey, who startles slightly, glancing up. He sees a pack of gum sticking out of the front pocket of Mickey’s short-sleeved button-down shirt, and bends over to grab it. He inspects the label, reading it aloud, “Blackjack cherry-flavored gum.” He smirks. “Can I have some?” He takes a piece without waiting for a response, placing the pack back in Mickey’s pocket, unwrapping his stick, then cramming it into his mouth, chewing exaggeratedly for a moment. Mickey looks completely aghast at the audacity of Ian’s actions and mere presence. Ian’s knowing smirk widens, and he raises an eyebrow. “So. . .” he says, leaning in close to Mickey’s face, “you really as horny as a ten-peckered owl?”

Mickey has never looked more uncomfortable around him, and Ian has never seen him on any other setting in the first place. Ian knows it’s risky to be so up front and challenging, but he knows no other way to go about it. What’s the point in beating around the bush, when he’s obviously figured it out? There’s no fucking way these are all mere coincidences. Mickey is definitely Hard Harry. He has to be. Ian studies his face as he looks away and begins swiftly gathering his things, and shoving them into his backpack haphazardly.

“Look, let me start again, I’m Ian.”

“Mickey.” He doesn’t look up as he says it.

“Yeah, Mandy’s brother, right? I hang out with her a lot. I never really see you around, though.”

“Okay?”

“So listen, I was gonna ditch 4th period. Do you wanna join me for a smoke in the Art supply room?”

“No, I can’t. Gotta go, sorry.”

And Mickey’s off, quickly putting distance between them, not turning around as Ian watches him leave and shakes his head. Maybe he should just try to get some info on the guy from Mandy, but seeing as the siblings aren’t very close, he doesn’t know how much good it’ll do. He’s gonna have to keep an eye on him.

  


* * *

  


Mickey feels all wrong today, and it’s not just because that fucking nosy-ass ginger friend of Mandy’s came out of nowhere acting like he knew all of Mickey’s secrets. . . even things he’d never _hinted_ at to anyone before. As he wanders aimlessly around school grounds, trying to kill time before his next class, he notices the ways in which the pristine picture the campus has painted every day since he first started have begun to change.

There’s random graffiti popping up everywhere (prohibited by School Rule #13), and a lot of what it says are just Hard Harry’s own words regurgitated back at him after being said on the show. Words like: ‘SO BE IT’ and ‘GET HARD’. He hears jocks listening to hardcore punk on their boombox in the quad, and nerds listening to The Jerky Boys on theirs in the dark corner of an alcove. He even hears snippets of his own disguised voice float by every so often.

It’s like his alter ego, and by proxy he himself, has become the latest fad or something. And everyone knows what happens to a fad that starts out on the underground. . . as soon as the right amount of people latch on, it becomes just another mass-marketed product at the local mall. That’s not what Mickey had in mind at all when he became Happy Harry.

The uneasy feeling follows him all the way to Miss Sheila’s class, which he’d briefly contemplated ditching just to avoid that stupid Ian guy, but he’s expecting a new assignment, and it’s the one class he enjoys being given work for. It gives him writing to do in his spare time, which he isn’t disciplined or confident enough to do on his own, without the threat of a deadline looming, and a promised grade that can help him gauge his progress.

Unfortunately, any and all normalcy the day might have held stops in its tracks as Miss Sheila enters the room unusually late to solemnly announce that a student named Malcolm Kaiser had taken his own life last night.

Mickey feels a palpable chill run up his spine, raising all the fine hairs on his exposed skin, right before he just goes numb, visibly slumping in his seat as his ears ring and his vision blurs around the edges. He feels physically ill, like he could easily lose his lunch.

Miss Sheila has them spend the rest of the period talking about their feelings, but Mickey can’t pay attention, let alone contribute. The only emotion he can seem to access is paralyzing guilt. Some poor, dumb, lonely kid had reached out to him for a _literal_ lifeline, and he hadn’t done fuck all to help him. Mickey is an _actual_ piece of shit.

He avoids Ian’s blazing gaze, because he _knows_. Right now, he’s the only other person who does, and Mickey doesn’t have the faintest clue what to do with that information. But friend of his sister’s or not, the guy is still a total stranger. Mickey can’t just. . . _talk to him_. Fuck that.

He accidentally catches those bright green eyes, and _yes_ , there is definitely pity in them. Ian knows this is Mickey’s fault too. He blames him, just like _everyone_ will soon. When they know.

Fuck. Everybody’s gonna _know_.

The bell rings, and it’s announced that the remainder of the school day is suspended. Mickey rushes for the exit, gasping for air once he’s cleared the crowded corridor and escaped into the open air once more. He stops to lean in an empty doorway and gather his wits for a moment, before he let’s his feet carry him away from the stifling surroundings of school. He walks through town in a daze, and eventually finds himself in the vicinity of the little post office where he has his P.O. BOX. He almost sobs with relief when he sees a new red letter among his correspondence, and he puts it on top of the pile, locks the box back up, then tears into the red envelope so he can read the words immediately, barely paying attention as he exits the building.

‘ _You are the voice. Crying out in the wilderness. You’re the voice that makes my brain burn and my guts go gooey. Yeah, you gut me. My insides spill on your altar and tell the future. My steaming, gleaming guts spell out your nature. I know you. Not your name, but your game. I know the true you. Come to me, or I’ll come to you_.’

“So, you _are_ him,” a deep, mischievous, disembodied voice states matter-of-fact from somewhere in front of him.

Mickey freezes. He doesn’t have to look up to know who’s speaking. He can’t fucking deal with this right now, though. Not with all the far more pressing feelings of endless guilt eating at him. The letter from Red is somewhat comforting, but in the end, it’s just more words from some stranger he’ll never know. The solace doesn’t last, because it isn’t real.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, and continues on his way.

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me,” Ian assures, walking backwards, staring him down, even as Mickey pointedly avoids looking him in the face and picks up his pace. He tries to dodge the tall, lanky fuck, but gets blocked. “Don’t you wanna know who _I_ am?” he continues dramatically.

“I don’t think so, no,” Mickey replies, trying to get around him again, but Ian just steps sideways once more, blocking him without touching him.

“I’m ‘Eat Me, Beat Me.’”

Mickey gasps, then scoffs.

“What you don’t believe me?” Ian continues, snatching the folded letter from Mickey’s hand, and holding it up as he recites it from memory. “I know you. Not your name, but your game. I know the true you.” Ian looks impish and daring as he places the letter back on the small pile in Mickey’s hands. A guy’s never looked at him in quite that way before.

That icy cold feeling is back, creeping its way back up from Mickey’s extremities, racing towards his heart, which kind of feels like it might burst right out of his chest. Red isn’t a girl. Red is a boy.

_Red is a boy._

Looking into those stupidly inviting eyes is not the best move when Mickey is freaking the fuck out about the kind of attention said eyes are paying him. Like Ian _knows_ him. Like he knows him way too fucking well. And who the fuck does this guy think he is anyway? Fooling him like that? But was it really fooling? Did Red ever say anything about being a chick or a dude, one way or the other? He can’t fucking remember.

He tries to flee again, blocked easily by long, pale limbs.

“Will you relax?” Ian urges. “I’m not _really_ like that. Except when I _am_. You know what I mean?”

“No, I really don’t,” Mickey tries to dismiss him once more, and he won’t make the mistake of making eye contact again. He stares at Ian’s big black combat boots instead.

“You had to know I was a guy. I mean, I gave you subtle clues, right? And you–”

He cuts him off. “Look, I really can’t handle this right now, okay?”

Ian looks at him with that same sad sympathy from earlier in the day, and Mickey realizes he must know why he’s really so distraught to begin with.

Ian opens his mouth to confirm it anyway. “It’s not your fault, what happened last night. What that kid did.” Mickey sniffles, dropping his head even lower, but Ian insists, “Look, look! I was listening last night too, and I didn’t think he’d go through with it.”

Mickey starts to turn away, and finally pushes past Ian. “It’s not your fault!” Ian yells after him melodramatically. Then he hears him mutter a frustrated, “Fuck!” but Mickey’s feet won’t stop.

He picks up the pace until he pretty much ends up jogging all the way home, hoping to slip around back, so he can step directly into his own private happy place, not so much to feel happy in this instance, but to finally be able to _let go_. Hiding in your own skin all day can be exhausting. The bad news only exacerbates the symptoms to the point that he’s almost overwhelmed with tiredness by the time he’s able to lie down on his full-sized bed. He burrows in on top of the blankets, face down, and let’s sleep overtake him as fast as it will come.

He awakes from a long, hard, nap feeling groggy and disoriented. Glancing at the digital alarm clock by his bed, the big red numbers tell him it’s already past 7 o’clock. His stomach rumbles as if on cue, and he groans, wiping a hand over his face and trying to gather his wits enough to face his family upstairs. His body isn’t going to let him skip dinner.

As if he hasn’t put up with enough shit today, his parents decide it’s a great time to take a concerned interest in his personal life, and they corner him in the kitchen almost as soon as he appears. As they bear down on him, and he glances around in desperation to see if by some small miracle, Mandy’s somewhere nearby, and he can somehow latch onto her for safety in numbers or something. But as per usual, she’s just a ghost that haunts the upstairs bathroom two hours everyday primping at her vanity, occasionally visiting for a meal, or an overnight. He fleetingly wonders if she’s eating dinner with Ian, and it irks him to think that she probably is.

“Honey,” his mom says in her strained attempt at a dulcet tone, “we heard about that boy at school.” Her tentative hand on his arm feels completely alien to him, and it strikes him that he can’t seem to recall the last time he appreciated her maternal touch. He tries to appear nonchalant in the way he recoils, by turning to open the fridge and rummage around in it for something to drink.

“Didn’t know him,” he states truthfully, his back turned as his hand grabs for the juice, then the tea, then the milk, skims over the condiments lined up on the shelf, and then repeats the motions over again.

“Well, whether you knew him or not, your father and I are still worried about you.”

Mickey can’t help the derisive snort that escapes. Yeah, he’s sure his father cares a lot, in the sense that if Mickey ever pulled a stunt like offing himself, the hot-headed asshole would probably follow him right into the grave out of sheer embarrassment. He could just picture him in the midst of a massive heart attack, ranting and raving about, “No son of mine. . .”

His father smacks him on the back of the head as he’s taking a swig out of the O.J. carton, and he almost spits it back up. “Don’t laugh at your mother! Answer her when she’s talking to you. And use a damn glass!”

Mickey rolls his eyes and spins around. “What do you want from me? I’m fine! What the hell have I done to make you think I ain’t? Some kid who has nothin’ to do with me commits suicide, and now what? You think I’m gonna do it too? Why? Because I’m a teenager? Since when do you care about what I do, not that it’s any of your business anyway.”

“If you expect to continue living under _my_ roof, everything you do’s my business, sonny boy,” his dad says in a dangerous tone. “If you’re not passing the muster, then we _will_ have a problem.”

“Terry,” his mom chastises, “calm down. As I was saying, we’re worried about you because you don’t have any friends. We’ve been here since mid-summer, and I’ve never seen you so isolated. There has to be someone at school you can get along with. Mandy found someone, even if he is a little strange, but at least she’s not alone all the time, locked away in some dank old basement.” She touches him again, this time on his face. He tries not to cringe. “There has to be at least one pretty girl in one of your classes, right?”

Ugh. Of fucking _course_ that’s what this is really about. . . Mickey hasn’t paraded an adequate amount of pussy around town for a guy his age, and that makes everything about him suspicious.

“Are you serious right now? You’re up my ass because I don’t got a girlfriend hangin’ off my arm, distractin’ me? Weren’t you the ones that said that as long as I maintain above a B average, you’d stay outta my shit? I practically have a damn 4.0. I’m tryin’ to get into a good college, just like you want me to. You can broadcast it to all your friends on the board of education that you got an ivy leaguer. Isn’t that what you want, Pops? What, suddenly that’s not good enough?”

Mickey doesn’t know where all this mostly feigned indignation comes from, but he rolls with it, because it’s diverting attention away from his most palpable, deepest fears.

“You can do well in school and still have friends, dear. You can even try to cut loose every once in a while. You’ve gotten so uptight. You could take a page from Mandy’s book.”

“Christ, Doreen, we don’t need another misfit on our hands. It’s good to know you’re taking me seriously about your education, but your mother’s right. You need to socialize. I spoke to your writing teacher when I was at the school earlier. She said you have a lot of potential, but she thinks you’re unfocused. Said you wouldn’t join the newspaper when she asked. Maybe it’s time to rethink your answer. Join something. Hell, go out for a goddamn sport, you could use some toughening up. Get some extracurriculars for your precious transcripts, and you may pick up a decent friend or two. Participate with the youth of our new community.”

Mickey huffs a loud breath, but holds his tongue. He hates when his dad goes all youth minister on him, like he’s some pillar of virtue, but he hates even more when he’s verbally berating him with endless guilt-trips instead.

“Just. . . find someone to talk to,” his mom asks.

“Or what? You gonna try to send me to a fuckin’ shrink? Not fuckin’ likely!”

“‘Ey!” his father booms from across the room, where he’d retreated to the head of the dining room table in expectation of dinner being brought out and served to him by his mother. “This is the last time I’m gonna tell you to watch your mouth when you’re speaking to your mother. Next time, I’ll take a belt to you like I used to in the good ol’ days. Now apologize, and sit. You’re gonna eat with us tonight. God knows where your damn sister is.”

Mickey mumbles an insincere apology in his mom’s vague direction and shuffles over to take his seat at the table, head bowed.

The television mercifully deflects any further ragging on Mickey about his lack of meaningful human connections or whatever-the-fuck during the painful family dinner he has to endure. But the downside to the distraction is that the local news is all about not only Malcolm Kaiser, but Mickey himself, or more specifically, his secret radio persona that was now apparently making enough of a splash to be newsworthy.

Some slick douchebag news guy from Scottsdale named Shep Shepherd is in town, wandering around HHHH campus, melodramatically reporting on the evils of Hard Harry’s illegal radio program and how it was intrinsic in the tragic early demise of a lonely, impressionable youth. His parents are eating it all right the fuck up, too. The segment concludes by indicating that Mickey’s alias is wanted for questioning about his role in encouraging a teen suicide.

Mickey is dumbstruck. Sure he feels guilty about not discouraging it as hard as he should have, but no way in fucking hell did he try to egg the guy on. He may not have known how to say the right thing, but it was obvious he didn’t think ending your life was an option anyone should take. Right?

“It’s a sick world, we’re livin’ in now, Doreen,” his father laments, shaking his head disdainfully.

If they only knew. . .

Fuck, this has to end. . .

  


* * *

  


Later that night, a couple neighborhoods away, Ian waits with bated breath, wondering if Mickey will decide to broadcast as usual. He’s never missed a night before, but it’s already 17 minutes past the hour. . . which makes him late. . . which leaves Ian staring at his clock, intermittently tuning the radio dial around between the non-commercial bands the show typically airs on.

When he’d been with him earlier, Ian could see the guilt Mickey was obviously feeling over the unexpectedly dark turn of events that had transpired in the last 24 hours. Funny how things can change just like that. Ian gets it, of course. . . why Harry–or Mickey rather– would have that burden weighing on him right now. He was probably scared shitless.

The news had said they were considering Happy Harry a ‘person of interest’ in the ongoing suicide investigation. Like a guy minding his own business, who happened to answer a distress call was somehow an accessory to another person’s decision-making to the point of culpability. That was laughable at best. Ian knows there were plenty of people listening and probably taping the show last night, and there’s no way they could pin blame from anything Mickey had said. Hell, the tape could even prove that he’d tried to call the guy back. Could they really stretch it and create some charge about how he should’ve dialed 911? Is that like some kind of thought-crime?

He really hopes these scare tactics don’t prevent Mickey from speaking out when Ian knows for a fact that a lot of people probably need to hear from him right now.

A few more tense minutes go by, when finally Ian hears that voice. Now that he knows it’s Mickey’s, he can sort of recognize the familiar tone and inflection beneath the voice modulator. It gives him a little thrill for some reason.

He’s apparently joined at the top of an opening rant to the unseen audience. . .

_“–everything, you have to understand. . . It wasn’t supposed to be like this. My dad gave me a shortwave radio so I could talk to my friends back east without usin’ up the long distance minutes on the telephone plan, right? And I rummaged around some garage sales for a few weeks, and bought up a bunch of other old radio and music equipment. I fuck around real poorly on an electric guitar sometimes, you know. So, turns out, that thing with the keepin’ in touch with the friends never happened. First of all, my grand social circle back home consisted of about two people. And second, who the fuck’s gonna invest in short wave back in the fuckin’ big city? Those two idiots probly just replaced me with the next awkward kid that came along sayin’ he doesn’t like malls, or pop music, or Reaganomics, or Jerry Fallwell. So one day, I woke up and realized I was never gonna be_ normal _. And I said, ‘Fuck it!’ I said, ‘So be it!’ and just started talking to no one. . . broadcasting for shits and giggles to see if anyone bothered to pick it up. That’s how Happy Harry Hard-on was born. But I never meant to hurt anyone. Honestly. I’m sorry, Malcolm. I never just came out and said the most obvious fuckin’ thing in the world: ‘_ Don’t do it.’ _I’m sorry.”_

The mic cuts off to dead air, and Ian wonders if that’s it for the night. Maybe it’s all Mickey has in him. He leaves the channel on, a little mesmerized by the static, wondering if there’s anything he can do, or _should_ do to help Mickey handle all this shit. Judging from the way he kept dodging Ian’s attempts to talk to him about it all, and the small amount of things Mandy had made him privy to about her family, he knew it was a pretty safe bet that Mickey hadn’t told anyone about his secret identity. He was most likely dealing with all of it alone, and would continue to do so if left to his own devices. Ian knows it’s not his responsibility, but he can’t help but care at this point. He’s had these intense feelings for this stranger for a fair amount of time, and revealing the face behind the anonymous mask only fueled that fire burning in his belly. He’s been pining, and now the object of his affection is drowning. That’s his chance, right? To save him. To make a difference. To become a friend. To test the waters.

The station gives a whir, and Mickey’s robo-voice fills the room again.

_“Look, you know what, I can’t say that I don’t get it. Why someone would want to just up and end it all. I understand the emotion and the pain behind that. Life fuckin’ sucks, and it’s really really fuckin’ hard sometimes. I know that. But at the same time, I also say, FUCK THAT SHIT! Don’t let other people ruin your life until there’s nothing left of it. At the end of the day, everyone’s a big ol’ fuckin’ phony anyway. Including me! I’m probly the biggest goddamn phony of all. You people don’t even know who the fuck I really am. I’m in hiding. How fake is that shit? So until I– until_ we _can be free and show the stinking, rotting world who the hell we really are, we’re not gonna give up. In fact. . . what we should really do is fuck shit up. Fuck it all up, because fuck it right? In Malcolm’s honor, tonight, you should all just live a little. Go nuts! Go wild! Do something you’ve always wanted to do, but never had the balls! Set everything on fire for all I care! Light it up! GO GET FUCKIN’ HARD!”_

A speed metal song Ian doesn’t recognize starts playing, and he laughs, wondering if anyone around town is indeed fucking shit up in their neck of the woods. He wishes Mandy were here with him, but she’s been seeing some older guy in secret and blowing Ian off more and more to hole up in his studio apartment on the other side of town, using him as cover story. It’s like he’s exchanging one Milkovich for another in some strange way.

The distorted shredding guitar segues into a cheeky Faith No More song, and by the time Harry is back on air, he’s calmed down considerably.

_“Alright, for those of you not still wildin’ out, might as well talk to someone before wrappin’ up, right? I’ve got a new letter here. Let’s check it out. . . actually, you know what, let’s just call him up and get straight to the point.”_

He gets the guy on the phone and asks him to explain what’s bothering him.

_“Um, well. . . I. . . I’m not like, what you would call popular, or whatever, but this summer, I started hanging out with this guy. . . this jock from another school. So, at first, we were just friends, but I didn’t really get it. . . like why he’d wanna hang out with me when he could go be with his pack of neanderthal buddies, you know? But then, one day we were out at the reservoir, and he. . . he made a move on me. . .”_

Ian’s breath hitched. He couldn’t believe the luck of the timing of this particular kind of call. Everything had happened so fast earlier and there was so much going on, he hadn’t really been able to gauge much of Mickey’s reaction to him, writer of suggestive fan mail, being a dude, other than just the initial shock of his assumptions being shattered. Mickey hadn’t lashed out, at least, but seeing as his real life personality was equally as docile as his radio personality was brash, that wasn’t really much of a clue as to where Mickey stood on the facts of it all. Ian’s suspicions still rang true, though, and now maybe he’d get even more of a direct indication that Harry wasn’t an absolute zero on the Kinsey Scale.

_“And I. . . I wanted it, so I let him. So we started fooling around, sometimes, all hush hush and everything, because he didn’t want anyone to find out. And I guess. . . I guess I didn’t really want it to get out either? So I went along with shit the way he wanted to do it, or whatever, but one day we were back at the reservoir, and a bunch of his asshole jock friends showed up with their assorted blonde bimbos and almost busted us.”_

The guy takes a deep, shaky breath, and Ian already knows what’s coming without needing to really hear the rest.

_“So in order to save face, this guy turned on me– humiliated me for. . . you know. . . the way I am, and then him and his friends jumped me. They beat me up pretty bad, and then I had to walk back into town. It fucking sucked. I never saw him again after that. Not like I want to, but. . . I guess a part of me still wishes I could. Even though he was just using me. What’s wrong with me?”_

_“Doesn’t sound like there’s anything wrong with you. Had you ever been with anybody before?”_

_“Not really.”_

_“And you were into it right? Before this guy acted like a macho prick to save his own ass.”_

_“Yeah. I know I like guys, I guess, but. . . you know, it’s not easy around here. I don’t. . . I don’t know anybody else who. . . is. . . or who will at least admit. . . you know.”_

_“Yeah, I get it. But the point is that the other guy is the one with issues. He wants to hide, he wants to take out his own self-loathing on everybody else. That’s more important than everything else to him. Remember, you wanted him, but he wanted you back. Guarantee you he still does, actually, but he’s too much of a pussy to be a man about it, you know what I mean? You shouldn’t feel confused. You did nothing wrong. He fucked it all up, so you just gotta try to let it go, and move on. Don’t close yourself off because of him. Free yourself even more. You’ll find a way. Let him deal with his own fucking problems, far away from you.”_

Ian’s kind of in awe of Mickey’s mature, measured response. The word ‘gay’ doesn’t even get used, which is kind of weird, but maybe Mickey is just hesitant to use the term, because the other guy won’t use it. Maybe he’s just trying not to spook him. Of course Harry would keep it close to the vest and not reveal anything about his own preferences or orientation. Nonetheless, here was another instance where Mickey didn’t have a big reaction to gay proclivities. No negative at this point was practically a positive.

And if. . . _If_ Mickey is gay, or bi, or in any way interested in dick, Ian has his work cut out for him if he wants to get anywhere near being let in.

It’s going to be a challenge.

  


*

  



	2. Stay Hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ ](http://i.imgur.com/HkiqCTy.jpg?1)

Seemingly overnight, the entire vibe of Paradise Valley becomes charged with a kind of chaos heretofore unheard of in a community with such deep roots in the so-called Moral Majority.

Shep Shepherd’s overenthusiastic, faux solemn reporting is now letting everyone know that the Feds are involved in the investigation of unknown malefactor, Happy Harry (they won’t dare refer to him as _Hard_ Harry, which is amusing in its own way). Still, the lingering mystery of who he really is quashes any real sense of comfort from spreading. Every word that’s ever been uttered on the illegal broadcast and preserved on record is being twisted around until it can take on the darkest and heaviest connotation possible. And any teenage disobedience that’s ever been preached is being interpreted as a direct order. This shadowy figure is a disrupter that will not be tolerated.

The headline on the _Paradise Valley Gazette_ that day, declares: ‘ _Teen Radio Pirate Ups Attacks!_ ’

The grounds of Hubert H. Humphrey High have never looked more trashy, as if a much more urban and fast-paced campus has been transposed with it. There’s graffiti everywhere, and loud bursts of everything from alternative indie rock to subversive rap music. It’s only a matter of time before bans are likely to be put in place.

Principal Linda Karib and top lackey, Mr. Ed Morris, are in full form, pulling out all the usual stops in their attempts to sniff out Harry’s identity. In direct response to the seeming ease Harry has obtaining official school documents and records, the administration is diligently pulling files on any and all students with relatives in the faculty.

The administration goes into full blackmail mode as the day progresses, holding every remaining delinquent offender in the school’s greatest worst hits over their heads in an effort to break down any kid that may have an idea who Harry is into admitting it.

Lip Gallagher is target number one with a bullet. By the end of the day, he’s expelled for repeated dress code violations and fighting on school property (prohibited by School Rule #9). Three more students are suspended for various forms of misconduct, decisions made after thorough grillings that yielded no assistance in unmasking the culprit they were really after.

The restlessness begets greater and greater levels of danger.

  


* * *

  


Mickey’s minding his own business, distracted by thoughts of the front page of the newspaper he’d happened across on his walk to school that morning and what it means for his chances of escaping this whole fiasco he created unscathed, when he hears Mandy’s distinctive voice call out to him in her charming manner, “Hey, assface!”

He glances her way, flinching when he sees Ian standing beside her, smirking confidently. They make a nice picture together, even if it isn’t your standard issued postcard image. Mandy looks like a naughty secretary from the 60s in a black dress with white polkadots, tailored, pressed, and topped with an impeccable curled ponytail and painted face. Ian is clad in similarly dark shades, but there’s enough flair for new wave dramatics that he looks like he’d be most in place at an Adam Ant concert or something. He thinks he even sees a hint of black eyeliner.

Mandy beckons him with her finger and whistles in her demanding way, so Mickey heaves a big sigh and begrudgingly makes his way over to them.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” she says, studying him.

“Yeah, well, you’re the one that’s never home, hoebag,” he replies, eying Ian in his periphery.

“Not like I’d ever see you if I were, basement boy. What, are you building a monster down there?”

“Look, you think you could do me a solid, and make a goddamn appearance at family dinner every once in a while, so I don’t have to get raked over the coals so fuckin’ much?”

His eyes flick over to Ian, slightly embarrassed by the things he’s overhearing.

“Hey Mickey,” Ian says quietly. Coyly really. Almost flirty. Seductive.

Mickey can’t have this whole _whatever it is_ in front of his sister, so he immediately goes into flight mode without even waiting for Mandy’s response about dinner, not missing the way she questions Ian as he walks away. “What the hell was _that_ little display?”

“ _What_?” he hears Ian reply with feigned innocence.

If Ian reveals anything to Mandy. . . fuck! He hadn’t even really thought of that until now. Too many other thoughts have taken up residence in his head. Ian had said he’d keep his secret, but who knows what the hell he and Mickey’s sister are to each other. Maybe secret-keeping doesn’t apply to her, or maybe Ian’s weak and likely to spill the beans in spite of himself. And what _is_ their relationship anyway? When Mickey’d first seen her hanging around the guy, he’d naturally assumed it was just another boyfriend. Mandy had already been through a long list of ‘em back home, and these two had somehow met over the summer, before they even started at Quadruple H. She was always over at his house overnight. What else was there to assume?

And now this guy is showing intense interest in Mickey. That thought hadn’t even occurred to him until he’d been confronted outside the post office. So, what does it mean? Is this guy a big creep with some fetish for siblings, gender be damned? But that didn’t really make sense, given that Ian didn’t even know _he_ was _him_ , when he was sending Hard Harry all those teasing words on pretty paper. But still. . . he _did_ know it was _a_ ‘him.’ He seemed to like ‘ _hims’_. . . but that didn’t necessarily mean he couldn’t like ‘ _hers’_ too.

Mickey ends up having trouble concentrating in all his classes, and he’s really glad that the teachers are giving them a bit of a pass amidst all the upheaval, because he knows he’d be totally screwed if any sort of pop quiz, or complex assignment were to come up.

On top of everything else, he now has to make a concerted effort to avoid the new tenacious ginger presence in his life, so that he can at least put aside that whole thing for a while, until he can deal with the far more pressing matters beginning to pile up way above his head.

He almost makes it through the day without incident, but as he’s making his way past the art wing, having snuck out of his last class a little before the final bell, he looks up to see Ian blocking his way, and doesn’t even get a chance to get a word out before he’s being dragged into the nearest empty classroom.

“So? Did you hear about Karen Jackson?” Ian asks excitedly.

Mickey shakes his head.

“Well, you know who she is, right? Little Miss Perfect? Rich, popular, on track to becoming valedictorian?”

Mickey shrugs. “Seen her around, I guess.”

“Well, she blew up her fucking kitchen last night after you suggested setting shit on fire.”

“She _what_?” He runs a hand down his face and worries his lip with his teeth.

“Apparently she put her antique jewelry box in the microwave and set in on the highest power setting. Her precious pearls went flying everywhere like bullets. She was found passed out with a head injury. Daddy is none to pleased.”

“I never– that wasn’t–” stutters Mickey, aghast. “Why the hell are kids in this town so fuckin’ literal? This is out of control.”

“I know!” Ian’s still expressing much more enthusiasm about this development than Mickey feels comfortable with given the increasing pressure it puts squarely on his shoulders.

Before Mickey can retort, the P.A. booms with an official announcement: _“Emergency PTA meeting tonight! 8 P.M. All parents are being informed by daytime phone. Good afternoon.”_

“That’s it. This is over,” Mickey states, eyes fixed on the speaker above the door.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this isn’t fun for me like it is for you, okay? It has to end. I just hope it’s not too late.”

“Mickey!”

“It’s done, okay? Please! Done is done!”

There’s no way to exit gracefully in a huff, and Mickey struggles to make his way through the door, so he can be free of meddlesome stalkers that suddenly seem way too comfortable interacting with him. He passes by some dickhead jocks that he despises doing shitty imitations of the Beastie Boys, rapping lyrics from a recently aired Harry show.

Yeah, fuck all this.

Mickey takes the familiar path to the post office, hunched over as if he could make himself invisible just out of sheer will. He’s about to step out into the crosswalk leading towards the mini-mall, when he notices two conspicuous black Ford sedans parked haphazardly in the lot right out front of it. He hesitates for a moment before crossing, and instead of heading in to check his mail, he walks down a ways, and finds a spot where he can see inside the post office without being seen himself, which basically leaves him creeping behind a wall.

Sure enough, an obvious Fed and a few Sheriff’s deputies are inside questioning the clerk. Mickey sighs in resignation and heads home at a brisker pace than usual.

Luckily, Mickey had had the forethought to register the P.O. Box to bogus credentials. He’d used the school’s address as his domicile and listed it under the knee-slapping pun alias: Chuck U. Farlie. Of course, at the time, he was really thinking the most likely scenario in terms of being busted would be his father having chopped down his bedroom door, and gone through all his shit until he found all the secrets stashed away. Still, he can’t say he never fantasized about being hunted down by the FCC, he just naively thought it’d be a lot cooler than the reality was turning out to be.

He enters the house through the front door, since no one else is home yet, and grabs a drink before heading to his room to stew for a couple hours, unable to temper the sense of mounting doom. He’s in way too fucking deep, and he never expected it. But he just had to keep pushing, and acting like he was some big untouchable badass. He’s such a goddamn idiot.

He shuffles upstairs that evening, shocked to find Mandy standing in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed, with a look of displeasure painting her face.

“The fuck are _you_ doin’ here?” he asks, fixing himself iced tea from the fridge.

“Um, was it not you who yelled at me to attend this shitty charade of a family dinner this very morning?”

“Didn’t expect you to actually show up.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. It’s not gonna be a daily occurrence or anything, but you’re right. I never see you anymore, and it’ll keep Terry and Doreen off my back a bit more.”

“Mandy, if they were any farther off your back, they’d be in fuckin’ outer space, or Canada. It’s _my_ ass constantly up for inquiry and criticism, while you’re off wherever, doin’ whatever and whoever you want.”

“Hey, I didn’t ask to be the only daughter, as well as the youngest. When the hell did you get to be such a whiner, though? It’s really unattractive. No wonder you never get laid.”

“I’ve changed my mind, dickbreath, you can exit stage left anytime.”

“Fuck you, Mickey,” she says, squeezing his shoulder, and walking past him to eat cheddar popcorn out of a big cylinder tin his mom keeps on the counter. “Can’t believe she still buys this shit,” she adds around a large mouthful.

Mickey cringes and takes his place at the already set table, turning his attention to the flickering television, anxious for the 7 o’clock news to inform him if things have gotten any worse for him, legally speaking.

Soon, all four Milkoviches surround the table, digging into Mom’s classic meatloaf, green beans, and mashed potatoes, to the backdrop of Shep Shepherd rhapsodizing about Karen Jackson setting off an explosion in her home, all at the urging of ‘ _wanted_ ’ illegal radio DJ, Happy Harry, stating he was now being charged with criminal solicitation in the suicide of Malcolm Kaiser.

_Holy shit_.

“Either of you listen to this character?” asks Terry.

Mickey shares a look with Mandy, who just shrugs.

“Not exactly,” he replies, looking down at his plate, and stabbing at the string beans roughly with his fork.

“Good. Don’t start, then. Your mother and I are going to the emergency P.T.A. meeting.”

“Uh, yeah,” says Mickey, rubbing the back of his neck, “about that. . . Mind if I catch a ride?”

“You want to come to a parent-teacher meeting?” his mom interjects with incredulity.

“Yeah. Everything’s pretty crazy right now. I kinda wanna know what’s bein’ said, you know?” He sounds so calm. He isn’t quite sure how he pulls it off.

Mandy gives him a weird look, though, with a furrowed brow denoting great concentration. “I’ll come too,” she says out of nowhere, surprising him for the second time in under an hour.

“Well, would you look at that?” boasts Terry sarcastically to their mother. “Our kids are actually pretending to care about something for once. It’s a minor miracle. Praise the Lord!”

Mickey grimaces, and shovels the rest of the food on his plate down as quickly as possible.

Shortly, the whole family is climbing into the station wagon; an occurrence that hadn’t taken place since they’d all piled in to drive away from Illinois. Terry is propped rigidly in the driver’s seat with a proud air about him. He’s been asked to speak tonight, and now his whole family’s going to be there to witness it. It’s probably the best kind of thrill a guy like him could possibly get. Too bad no one in the car actually gives a shit. Well, maybe their mom, but Mickey wouldn’t be surprised if everything she does as Terry’s wife is a total act. He couldn’t really picture anyone being in love with that, even if they did meet over two decades ago. His mom was annoying and not very bright, but at least she had good qualities too. She’s easily the best thing that ever happened to Terry’s uptight, stern ass.

Unfortunately for good ol’ Pops, the glory is extremely short-lived. It doesn’t get much further than the principal introducing him, and the beginnings of a speech filled with platitudes, including the grand unveiling of a student hotline run by Mr. Devers, that had been dubbed BIONIC for some fucking reason, an acronym for ‘Believe It Or Not I Care.’ The masses have been sufficiently agitated, and social niceties have been tossed out the window. He’s interrupted by one angry middle-aged yuppie after another, unable to get a word in edgewise, until the proceedings are brought to a momentary standstill as the entire small auditorium watches a bruised up Karen Jackson with bandages across her nose, making her way slowly and silently toward the dais. She’s looking generally disheveled, in oversized lounging clothes, and coupled with the dazed look on her face, she slightly resembles a patient recently released from the psych ward after a heavy dose of meds.

She steps directly between Terry and the podium without fanfare, and calmly states, “My name’s Karen, and I have something to say to you people.” She doesn’t even bat an eyelash as Principal Karib fights to silence her, scurrying around her with a flurry of indignant demands falling upon deaf ears: ‘excuse me,’ ‘stop this at once,’ ‘excuse me, young lady,’ ‘you do not have permission,’ ‘this is highly inappropriate.’ Karen plows through it all, leaning in close to the microphone. “Everyone’s saying that Harry is doing bad things, and encouraging bad behavior, but it seems to me that these things were already here. My god, why don’t you people listen? He’s trying to tell you that there’s something wrong at this school! Half the people here are on probation of some kind, and all of us are scared to be who we really are. I’m not perfect! I’ve just been going through the motions of being perfect. But inside, I’m screaming!”

And with that, the detour is over just as quickly as it began.

Mickey watches intently as she rushes outside, and decides to follow her out, deeming the rest of it a wash. He turns to find both his mother and his sister have followed as well, and they all watch on as Karen gets swarmed by cameras and reporters who don’t give a shit about anything concerning the state of her, only caring to ask if she knows Harry’s true identity.

Clearly tired of trying to shove them all out of her way so she can get by, she ends up grabbing one camera by the long lens, and speaking directly into it.

“Harry, if you’re watching, don’t do what they want! Whatever they ask you to do, don’t listen to them! Keep going! Stand hard! Talk hard!”

She flips everyone off, then starts screeching and slamming her way through the crowd like a crazed banshee.

“Wowwww,” Mandy marvels from beside him. “Didn’t know Miss Rich Bitch had it in her. Everyone is actually losing their fucking minds! Isn’t it great?”

Mickey sees the same brand of excitement in her eyes that he’d seen in Ian’s earlier that day, and it unsettles him just as much.

“What is _wrong_ with you, Amanda Jean?” their mother pipes up from his other side. “There’s nothing great about it! That young woman is clearly unwell. Now, let’s get back inside and support your father.”

“Actually. . .” Mandy begins.

“I kinda gotta. . .” Mickey starts at the same time.

Their mom just sighs in resignation and re-enters the auditorium alone.

“You goin’ to Ian’s?” he asks his sister in what he hopes is a casual tone once they’re alone, trying not to shift his eyes too much and give anything away.

Mandy looks understandably confused at his interest in her whereabouts, but doesn’t give him shit about it. “No. If you must know, I’ve been sorta seeing this college guy. Going to his place.”

Mickey snorts. “Oh, yeah? Thought that’s what Firecrotch was for?”

“Um,” Mandy smiles, holding back a laugh, “not at all, actually. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

She punches him on the shoulder, and they go their separate ways.

  


* * *

  


Ian spends most of his evening restlessly moving around his bedroom, fiddling with shit without any real aim in mind, a sullen soundtrack playing in the background. He’s not in the mood for the more upbeat songs today. He keeps skipping through to all the slow tracks dripping with emotion.

He can’t stop thinking about Mickey and he doesn’t know what to do about it. All Mickey ever seems to do is run away from him. I mean, Ian is the only one who knows that he’s ultimately behind all the craziness going on around them, and Mickey still doesn’t want to have anything to do with him. If it were Ian, he knows for a fact he would’ve caved by now and told someone. Maybe even many ones. He has a few siblings, after all. And Mandy. He would’ve told her. He feels kind of bad that she has no clue who Mickey really is. Has a feeling she’s going to be hurt when it all comes out. Because it has to come out, right? There’s no stopping that now. And Mickey has to know that too. He must be panicking.

After too many hours of bored contemplation, Ian firmly decides to try and get to Mickey one last time. After this, if he’s pushed away, or if Mickey flees from him like he’s patient zero in a fresh wave of the Bubonic Plague, then Ian will probably have to concede that he can’t get through that thick layer of wall surrounding his crush, and back off once and for all. He can only give it so many goes, right? Maybe this time, if he approached Mickey at his own place, and the boy was in the right mood, or maybe even if he just hit rock bottom and was too lonely to reject a helping hand, maybe things would go differently. He just had to figure out a way to make the guy trust him. He’d never really had to actively do that before, though, so he was at a loss on where to start.

It’s already 22 minutes past 10 and _Happy Harry Hard-on_ is still radio silent as Ian makes his way to the Milkovich house.

When he arrives, he goes around back to check if there’s a back entrance, since he knows Mickey lives on the basement level, but that turns out to be beside the point, because he finds his quarry standing over a charcoal barbecue grill burning what Ian correctly assumes to be listener letters in the fire pit.

“So, I take it you’re not going on tonight?” he calls out, startling the guy, who snaps his head around to look at him. It’s the first time Ian’s ever seen him without glasses on.

“Ding ding ding!” Mickey affirms sarcastically, turning back to squeeze lighter fluid over the charring mass of paper, and toss in another handful of mail.

“That’s really fucked up of you, Mickey,” he says, referring to the way he’s trashing all his fans, his cohorts, words to him.

“It’s evidence,” Mickey snaps, turning back to him for a moment. “In case you haven’t noticed, things are startin’ to close in on me here.”

“So your solution is to just quit? You started this! And you started it for a reason, whether you want to admit it or not. You inspired people, and now you’re not gonna see it through?”

“What the hell else can I do? I don’t exactly have a lot of appealing options here. I have to salvage what I can, and see if I can beat this somehow.”

“You know, this isn’t a game to us. . . the ones who listen to you every night. You have a responsibility to the people who believe in you.”

Mickey retreats into his room, remaining silent as he gathers up presumably incriminating items strewn about the place, throwing them into a plastic milk crate.

Ian is hot on his heels, continuing the campaign to try and understand where Mickey’s head is really at. “Can you just _try_ to explain to me, huh? What is this to you?” Silence. “Say something!” More silence. “Anything! Even if it’s just to call me a fuckhead and tell me to leave! Scream at me!” There’s never been this much silence. “Something!”

Mickey remains turned away, but slumps his shoulders and hangs his head defeatedly, tossing the milk crate in his hands onto the floor. Ian’s eyes stay glued to his back as he let’s out a breathy, “I can’t.”

“You can’t what?” prods Ian.

Mickey turns around then, really meeting his eyes for the first time, without the glasses between them. “I can’t talk. . .”

Ian almost wants to laugh, but he knows that would be unkind right now. “Sure, you can talk.”

“To _you_! I can’t talk to _you_.” Mickey looks extremely freaked out as he says it, like he can’t believe he’s doing it.

Ian’s mouth drops open in surprise as he’s hit with the stunning realization of what that probably means. But he can’t dare to hope too much on that alone. It’s not enough.

They stare at each other with wide eyes, the metaphorical crossroads right there between them in that dingy basement room.

Just as it starts to feel stiflingly awkward, and Ian entertains thoughts about fading into the wall behind him, Mickey randomly turns from him, and flips the switch to broadcast out. Instead of a little lightbox being lit up to read “ON AIR,” it’s just a cartoon drawing of a middle finger that’s illuminated.

“I got a new letter from this guy who has this problem. . .” Mickey begins, and Ian knows there is no new mail. Knows there’s probably not even any old mail left. He watches the back of Mickey’s head, standing stock-still, afraid to make a sound. “He can’t talk. I mean, he _can_ talk, but never when he wants to, and never when it matters. Not to people.” Ian gulps. “Not to _guys_.” Ian decides he needs to lie down, but Mickey’s bed seems too presumptuous, and he feels like he’s spying, so he just lies down on the floor behind an old loveseat, with his hands behind his head, ears burning. “He just opens up his mouth and nothing significant comes out. And then this jerk finds someone that he likes, which is probly the worst thing that could happen to a person that can’t talk. So, I mean, I don’t know what to tell this guy, because _lately_ every time _I_ open my mouth, the shit hits the fan. So, I don’t know, maybe the best thing to do is just. . . turn around. . . face the music. . . and try to talk.”

Ian’s holding his breath. Waiting for the next words. Then he realizes, that’s actually his fucking cue, and he needs to get up and say something back.

He’s about to make Mickey aware of his location, when there’s a loud knock on the upstairs door, with what are obviously Mickey’s parents’ shouts seeping through it. He peeks around the corner and watches as Mickey mutters curses under his breath and scrambles to turn off his equipment, and hide it underneath an elaborate set-up that disguises what goes on downstairs every night.

Ian stays hidden in his spot, listening as Mickey stomps quickly up the stairs, unlocking a series of bolts and yelping in protest when his parents seem to shove past him, tramping down the creaky wooden stairs.

“What are you doing?” barks Mickey.

“What do you mean? I’m walking around my house. What are _you_ doing down here, huh?” his father responds.

“Mickey, it’s filthy down here,” his mom chides in the background.

“It’s fine. What is this about?” Mickey sounds exasperated.

“We were upstairs listening to the radio after we got home,” his father says. “We heard you talking down here. Who are you talking to, huh? I don’t see anyone else here.”

“What? What are you tryin’ to say?”

“You’ve been so withdrawn lately,” his mom interjects. “And I know you’re angry about leaving Chicago and your friends. Are you. . . are you this Happy Harry character?”

A long uncomfortable silence is about to seep in, when Ian makes a snap decision and pops out from behind the sofa. “He was talking to me!” He takes a few long strides forward with too much enthusiasm. “Hi! I’m Ian. Mandy’s friend.” He reaches out a hand and shakes with both the parents, smiling too much. Mickey’s looking at him like he’s grown three heads. “Mickey’s helping me out with something. A school thing. A project!”

His mother replies, “Right, yes. Nice to finally meet you, Ian.” She turns to Mickey. “I’m so sorry, dear. I should’ve known you could never be that awful person.” She touches his hair fondly, and he winces. “Anyway, I’m glad you’ve made a friend. It’s good to see you with some company, and it’d be so great to see you getting along with your sister again!” she concludes.

“Enough, Doreen,” Mickey’s dad huffs. “Introduce him to some girls please, Ian,” he adds with a bit of cheesy elbow nudging.

Ian feigns a laugh as they ascend the stairs once more, and Mickey follows so he can restore the barrier between his space and the rest of the house.

“What the fuck was that?” Mickey asks once he’s back downstairs.

“You mean me saving your ass?” Ian clarifies. “Don’t worry, you can thank me later. You gonna go back on, or what?”

Mickey actually smiles at him, and Ian nearly faints at the encouraging development. He crosses his arms in amusement as he watches Mickey unhide all his radio equipment, take off his shirt, and light a cigarette with the cool flip of a Zippo, before flipping the switch once more.

“What’s up, folks? Didn’t think you’d hear from me tonight? Yeah, me neither, but guess what? I got my cock-ring on, and Hard Harry is ready.”

Ian snickers as Mickey launches into an off-the-cuff rant about the failed P.T.A. meeting, and how all the hypocritical parents and faculty probably rushed home to hear what Hard Harry has to say about it.

“All you adults wanna insult me with slurs that indicate mental illness, so that’s nice. Deluded! Demented! Delusional! Whatever else you have to tell yourselves to dismiss everything I’m sayin’ as bullshit. But think about it for a second, if it was all bullshit, would Principal Stick-Up-Her-Ass be this riled up? She’s off somewhere shakin’ with rage, because she knows her days are numbered if she can’t regain control. And don’t get me started in again on ol’ Davey Devers! Local guidance douche-canoe of the year! I hear he’s manning the phone lines down at the hip new hotline station, and I just feel so drawn to him, I can’t keep away. I need to call him up!”

He snatches up the beige portable phone sitting on his desk, yanks on the long metal antenna, and punches in a number from memory. Ian decides to step outside and listen to Mickey through his headphones, a little keyed up at the fact that he did it. He’s here in Mickey’s space, being let in. Being _accepted_. It’s like a wildest dream come true. He was almost positive he’d have been kicked out by now, but his last ditch effort is paying off in spades, and he’s a bit thrown for a loop.

He takes a moment to breathe deeply and look up at the stars, then turns his Walkman on and tunes it until he hears Mickey’s digitized voice. He’s just in time to hear the guidance counselor triumphantly exclaiming that the police are with him and have traced the call to Harry’s location.

Ian tenses up immediately, but Mickey just answers with nonchalant scorn, “ _Aw, Davey Boy, I thought we were friends! Shame on you!_ ” The call ends, and Mickey puts on an uncharacteristic song choice, tone shifting completely. “ _Anywayyyy, this song goes out to someone mysterious who makes me feel funny._ ”

Ian smiles widely as his heart jumps up into his throat. He feels a little light-headed.

But why isn’t Mickey worried?

  


* * *

  


Mickey steps outside, and feels sort of high, almost like an out-of-body experience. Ian is standing there waiting for him, looking drop dead gorgeous staring up at the nearly full moon, listening to the show on his Walkman. He faces Mickey with an appealing smile when he notices him approaching.

“Leonard Cohen? Really?” he inquires.

Mickey shrugs, arching an eyebrow, lips quirking at the corners.

“For me?” he presses, lowering the headphones from his ears.

Mickey shrugs again, blushing a little, and pawing at the back of his hair nervously. Why does he have to be so fucking shy?

Ian can tell, of course, because he seems to understand Mickey even though they barely know each other really. “It’s okay,” he assures softly, stepping closer. “You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to say anything.” Mickey holds his breath. “Or do anything.” His palms feel clammy. “Unless you want to.”

Mickey feels kind of helpless, and he suddenly notices that he’s walking backwards in a circle as Ian follows him around the patio, a glint in his eye to accompany his challenging demeanor. Again, he’s struck by the fact that no guy has ever looked at him like that before, ever in his life.

“You’re so. . . _different_ ,” Mickey finally manages to blurt out, and he wants to kick himself for how fucking lame and stupid that sounds. What an amazing observation. Ian distracts him from the mental self-flagellation by taking his shirt off, and Mickey can’t even attempt to stop his eyes from roaming all over that sculpted torso, marble-like in the glow of the moonlight. Mickey’s about to let himself be taken aback, until he remembers that he’d taken his own shirt off first when he’d grown hot around the collar and needed to get into his fucking character. The feel of the warm breeze hitting his skin makes him shiver. “I mean. . . You’re so _fearless_. I wish. . . I could be like you.”

Ian steps closer. “You _are_ like me.”

A large, pale, freckled hand reaches out for him.

“I wish. . . I could say things to you.”

It clutches tentatively at his waist.

“You do.”

He feels Ian’s thumb softly grazing against the dip just above his hipbone.

“Everything’s so strange. . .”

He exhales sharply.

“Yeah.”

Ian puts his other hand on the other side of Mickey’s waist.

“We’re just crazy.”

He’s not even sure what the hell he’s saying anymore. Every protest lingering in the back of his mind dies before it can make its way to his lips. He’s just stalling. But he knows what’s about to happen. He can’t believe it, but he _knows_.

“So be it,” whispers Ian, as he goes in for the kill.

They both exhale noisily through their noses as their mouths meet. Ian’s lips are soft and warm, and his arms feel really strong around him, pressing them closer together. Their chests touch, and a ripple of excitement courses through his veins. He gasps, parting his mouth just enough for Ian to swipe the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip, flicking it up inside for just a second. Mickey presses in harder, moving a hand up to grasp at the back of Ian’s head.

He’s never been kissed like this before. He’s never wanted to kiss anyone back like this before. He can feel himself about to fall over some kind of edge. . . a point of no return. . . Everything is going hazy, and he can picture what it’d be like to let go completely. He’s about to snake a hand up to grope at Ian’s muscled pecs when a police siren rings out through the quiet of the neighborhood, and they pull away from one another abruptly in blind panic. Eyes wide, they stare at each other for a moment, and seem to reach the same conclusion on what to do: hit the floor.

“Fuck, Mickey! They really did trace you! What the fuck do we do?”

“Relax, I’m like 75% sure they’re not gonna figure me out through the phone line,” he appeases, but they stay on the ground, watching and waiting.

The siren cuts off a good distance away, but the faint colors of the flashing red and blue cop cruiser lights can be seen not too terribly far from his backyard.

“Care to explain?” prompts Ian.

“I didn’t wanna risk my parents findin’ out about a second phone line here at the house, so I rigged somethin’ over in a shed on a neighbor’s property while they were out of town for the summer. Had the second line activated over there. They never go in that fuckin’ shed, and I hid it well enough. I have another charger over here, but the transmitter for the portable phone stays plugged in over there. It’s just a smidge on the right side of the reception radius. Gonna have to smash it now, I guess.”

“So you’re saying that the cops are over there busting some innocent civilians you ran a con on?”

Mickey crinkles his nose, which makes his whole face scrunch up, “Nah, they’ll be fine. They don’t know anything, and they don’t have any kids livin’ with them. They’ll question ‘em for a little bit, and be done with it. They’ll be able to see anyone could’ve installed that in the shed. It’s always unlocked, and they’re barely home anyway. I’m not a total asshole.”

Ian concedes a laugh. “I guess you’re pretty fucking clever, huh? You should be a spy or something when you grow up.”

Mickey guffaws, picking himself up off the grimy ground, and offering Ian a hand. They stand, dusting themselves off as best they can.

“So. . . are you _actually_ wearing a cock-ring?” Ian inquires cheekily.

“I’ve never even _seen_ a cock-ring in the flesh. Only in the magazines,” Mickey admits with a grin.

“You sure about that? I don’t believe you.”

Ian goes for his pants in a joking way, as if to undo them, but Mickey slaps his hands away harshly, pushing him back.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doin’?”

“I was just kidding around, Mick. I wasn’t really trying anything.”

“Yeah, well, anyone could fuckin’ see us out here! The neighbors. My fucking parents.”

“You didn’t seem to care too much about that a few minutes ago.”

“Yeah, well, the spell is broken, alright?”

He’s not entirely sure why he’s having such a strong reaction to Ian’s advances after he’d finally given in and allowed himself to accept them, but he’s just not ready for Ian to go grabbing at his dick like that.

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry. Guess you really _can_ talk when you want to.”

“Guess so.”

“Probly best to get in there and pause for station identification. I’ve gotta head home anyway.” He throws his shirt on hastily, and grabs his discarded Walkman. “See ya.”

Mickey wants to stop him. Almost calls out for him to wait, but he can’t see where it would go from here. He wants him to stay, but he’s also terrified of what that could lead to. Nonetheless, he feels dumb about freaking out like that over some teasing and horseplay, added to his frustration with himself for still being afraid of what he really wants.

He plays a few more songs for his listeners, then shuts everything down and covers it all back up. He stares up at the glow-in-the-dark universe sticker scene he created above his bed, trying not to think of strong lips, chiseled jawlines, big hands, defined muscles, and most of all, fiery red hair.

Walking to school the next morning, he hasn’t felt this nervous since his first day. He braces himself as he approaches, wondering how Ian’s going to react when he sees him in the harsh light of day.

He doesn’t have to wonder long, because he spots him leaning on the fence by the entrance Mickey usually comes in, and the way he’s staring at him unwaveringly makes Mickey think he’s actually waiting for _him_.

Ian smiles shyly, which is a new look for him, at least to Mickey’s eyes, and when he greets him, he’s also soft-spoken. “Hi.”

“Um, hi,” Mickey returns, feeling soft as well.

“I uh. . . I’m sorry about last night. I don’t want you to think I’m some asshole that just wants to get into your pants or something.”

Mickey hopes he’s not turning red, because his face definitely feels hot. “I know you’re not.”

He starts walking slowly, and Ian falls in step beside him. They amble through campus together in silence, and it seems like Ian wants to say more, but he’s not sure how. Mickey tries to initiate a conversation, but remains tongue-tied, and nothing coherent comes out. In an attempt to put an end to the awkwardness, he takes advantage of an empty classroom doorway around the next corner, and impulsively pulls Ian with him until they’re hidden from view of the stragglers, then leans into his flustered face to give him a soft, simple kiss.

Ian looks like he’s floating on cloud nine when they break apart, and Mickey notices that they’re holding hands. Ian sees him looking at where they’re clasped and chuckles, bringing the back of Mickey’s hand up and placing another brief kiss there, before letting go and backing out of the alcove.

They keep walking toward the main building, looking at all the hard-to-miss fresh graffiti littering the grounds and walls along the way. It’s mostly just more Hard Harry quotes, such as: ‘THE TRUTH IS A VIRUS’ and ‘LIGHT IT UP.’

“This is amazing,” declares Ian. “Your message is really getting out there.”

But Mickey is seized by a whole new wave of doubt and fear. “Oh god. This whole thing is making me ill!” He bends down for a moment, resting his hands on his knees, trying to prevent himself from hyperventilating or something equally embarrassing that would draw attention to himself.

Ian stops and looks at him with concern. “Mick, what’s with you?”

“I’m done,” he says softly, barely above a whisper.

“What?”

“I’m done, alright!” he cries. “It’s over! Going back on the air last night was a mistake.”

“But you’re so close!” Ian insists.

“To what?”

“To getting your message out!”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about? Look around. This is my life you’re so intent on screwing with here.”

“Not anymore it isn’t! It’s not just _your_ life. It’s _everyone’s_ lives. You need to accept that. Don’t act like you didn’t want this. You got it, and now you have to do something with it. You’re not done yet.”

“I’m done when I say I’m done. All this is fuckin’ crazy.”

“Yeah, it _is_ crazy. You stirred shit up. It’s just like you said, don’t you see? The world is fucked up right now, and you’re the voice. _You_ are the voice you were waiting for.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re sayin’. You’re just as crazy as the rest of ‘em.”

Mickey hightails it away from Ian as fast as he can. Why he ever thought he could go there with this guy, right now, when his life is unraveling before his very eyes, powerless to stop it, he’ll never know.

“Yeah, well, you _make_ me fucking crazy!” Ian yells at the back of him.

Mickey’s so fucked.

  


* * *

  


It’s another highly eventful day at HHHH. Before lunchtime, someone takes over the school’s P.A. system, blasting Harry’s most blazing rants all throughout the buildings and grounds. This leads to a swift announcement after lunch has ended, in which portable stereos are banned from campus, a stern threat of suspension is issued to anyone caught with tapes of Harry’s show, plus a bonus warning of expulsion to anyone caught defacing school property.

Ian Gallagher and Mandy Milkovich get caught in a big round-up by Vice Principal Morris during lunch time, and questioned about Happy Harry’s identity. Mandy winds up suspended for a week for donning a too-short skirt, but Ian gets expelled for failing Math and cutting classes. It was going to be a suspension until Ian lost control, and told Principal Karib off with a few choice words and gestures.

She has a special kind of indignant gleam in her eye that day, after being dealt another strike against her disciplinary failures when pregnant teen, Cheryl Biggs, is reinstated at school on court order. Turns out her disappointed parents still cared enough to get her legal help so she could still get an education in spite of her circumstances. Seeing her back in the halls is enough to set Karib’s teeth on edge. She orders psych evals on all the most prominent troublemakers that have still somehow managed to escape her axe. She even gets the added thrill of firing a teacher she’s despised ever since she’d first laid eyes on her.

Miss Sheila Walker catches V.P. Morris manhandling Philip Gallagher to the point of throwing punches, after catching him on school grounds, despite having been recently expelled earlier in the week. Due to her intervention in his blatantly gross abuse of power, Sheila is deemed out of line with the administration’s aims, and a power-tripping Linda can’t resist the urge to purge her from the ranks, even if her excuse was flimsy at best.

Sheila, for her part, manages to keep her cool and acts as if she’s leaving quietly, when in fact she’s able to stick around out of sight as she packs up her classroom at the end of the day. Taking advantage of the distracted staff, she’s able to launch an investigation of her own.

Meanwhile, the FCC gets more closely involved, dispatching special tracking vans that can be used to triangulate radio signals. They even park one right out in front of the school, a symbolic ominous threat. One that could actually put an end to _The Happy Harry Hard-On Hour_ for good.

Shep Shepherd conducts a special report, interviewing the lead investigator from the FCC; an old fuddy-duddy in a bad plaid suit, with a worse comb-over, called Hershel Watts.

The most memorable portion of the pre-taped segment comes when Hershel is walking Shep around the FCC van parked outside of Humphrey High, spouting a rehearsed speech: “Unregulated radio leads to the broadcasting of the lowest common denominator. The rule of the mob.”

They reach the other side of the van, only to find it spray painted in bright neon pink with the message: ‘STAY HARD, HARRY!’

A flustered Agent Watts then exclaims lamely, “This isn’t free speech, this is vandalism!”

Teenagers can be heard in the background whooping and laughing.

  


* * *

  


Ian is lying on top of his garnet-colored comforter, hands tucked behind his head, staring up contemplatively at the ceiling, bathed in the glow of the blue Christmas lights hanging above the bed in lieu of any kind of headboard. A black-light hangs over the dresser on the opposite wall where his boombox sits playing somber, frenetic music at the speakers’ maximum volume.

He’s so absorbed in his thought cycle of helplessness and despair that he doesn’t even notice the person climbing through his second floor window, and he startles when a figure is suddenly standing over him, bolting upright reflexively with a loud yelp, throwing a punch at the body without even thinking about it first.

“Ow! What the fuck!” howls the guy, slumping over and grabbing at his side in pain.

Ian’s brain finally registers who it is that’s decided to break in without warning, but he’s not really any less confused.

“Jesus, Mickey! What the hell are you doing here?” he hollers over the din of noise bouncing off his walls.

Mickey grimaces and slowly walks over to the stereo, turning the volume down by half, shaking his head. “What the hell are you listening to?” he asks in a normal tone of voice, trying to catch his breath from having the wind knocked out of him.

“Clan of Xymox.”

“Clan of what now?”

“Xymox. European dark wave synth goth band.”

“You have oddly specific tastes.”

“Not really. I like a lot of different genres, mostly underneath the new wave umbrella, but not always. Anyway, you didn’t come here to talk about music, did you?”

“Not really, no,” Mickey confesses, ducking his head and looking sheepish. “I, uh, ran into Mandy after school. She told me you got expelled, and I just wanted to tell you that I’m fuckin’ sorry. I know it’s all my fault, and it only happened because you were protecting me. You risked your whole entire future for me, and I. . . I have to fix it. I’m gonna find a way. You don’t deserve this. None of it is on you.”

Ian sighs heavily, extremely touched by Mickey’s presumptuous vow, but knowing that he himself is guiltier than Mickey thinks. “It’s not on you, Mick. I mean, yeah, she wanted to suspend me over bullshit that had nothing to do with the real reason, but I’m the one that hates math and keeps failing at it, and skips all the classes I don’t like more often than not. She only expelled me because I flipped her off and called her an evil cunt, which apparently is frowned upon.”

Mickey chortles. “Okay, that I would’ve liked to have seen! What did her face look like when you said it?”

Ian smiles wide at the memory. “Like if it weren’t illegal, she would gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon, or shove a hot poker up my ass. She was fucking _livid_. It was glorious.”

Mickey’s still grinning as he shakes his head again. “I knew you were brave, but that takes some balls I don’t think I have.”

He snorts derisively. “Mickey, you have the biggest balls of anyone I know. You just need to come out of the shadows a bit and own it.”

His gaze zeroes in on Mickey’s top front teeth biting down on his plump lower lip. “I’m sorry I was an asshole earlier. I don’t mean to always take shit out on you, I just. . . I don’t really have anyone to talk to about all this, so you’re the only one that’s been there for me to vent at.”

“I forgive you,” he answers. “I’m sorry I punched you. Don’t sneak up on me like a home invader next time, please.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. You pack a pretty good wallop, Gallagher.”

Ian titters. “I’m actually surprised you know my last name. How the hell did you find out where I live anyway? And which room I was in?” He scoots over on the bed and leans against the wall, patting the space beside him on the full-sized mattress in invitation.

Mickey hesitates for a moment, before tentatively moving forward to accept. Instead of laying longways next to Ian, he sits on the edge, facing him.

“I looked you up in the student directory. It’s one of the many documents I pilfered from my dad’s home office. And then, uh. . . I was kind of wandering around the perimeter of your house and, uh, a couple of your younger siblings were outside playing. Pointed me in the right direction, and there’s that convenient tree right outside your window, so I decided to avoid more awkward family run-ins, and take the more direct route. You should maybe lecture your little sister about being so trusting.”

Ian laughs. “I will definitely do that. So, you just came over to apologize? They didn’t have my phone number in that student directory, or you just really, really wanted to see me?” He pokes him in the side affectionately.

Mickey looks bashful for a moment, but clears his throat, then meets Ian’s eye. “I wanted to tell you that you were right. It’s not over. I decided, fuck ‘em; I’m gonna finish it.” He pauses, studying Ian’s face intently. “But I need your help. I can’t do it alone.”

Ian gapes at Mickey like he can’t believe he’s really saying these things. . . Implying that Ian had influenced his thoughts and decisions. That he wanted, no, _needed_ Ian’s help.

“Finally,” he says, cupping Mickey’s cheek, and pulling him in for a soft kiss.

They’re leaning into each other at an awkward angle, due to their positions, and Ian is almost startled when Mickey scoots in closer, placing a hand on Ian’s black-dyed denim-covered thigh. They deepen the kiss, and Ian feels bold enough to lean back into the pillows behind him, pulling Mickey with him so that he’s lying halfway on top of him.

He’s not sure where to put his hands. He knows where he _wants_ to put them, he just doesn’t wanna freak Mickey out again. Although they hadn’t really talked about it, he could tell that Mickey had never been intimate with a guy before. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure if he’d ever done anything with a girl either. He just seemed really shy and hesitant about all of it, and Ian figured Mickey should be the one to set the pace. Hard as that may be.

_Hard_. Really hard.

Shit.

Ian was totally popping a boner. If Mickey just moved a little bit more to the right, he would brush up against it.

He tries to pull back, to maybe slow down, but Mickey doesn’t let him. He presses Ian into the bed as his mouth gains more confidence, and he starts slipping his tongue into the mix.

Fuck it.

Ian lets his hand wander down Mickey’s back, sliding it underneath the hem of his shirt, rubbing circles against the soft skin in the prominent dip above the swell of his ass. Mickey exhales roughly, and hikes his leg over Ian’s so that he’s straddling him.

Ian gasps as his erection gets direct friction beneath his pants, and his eyes open wide, worried again that he’ll scare Mickey off with his dick. He gazes up transfixed as Mickey pulls back, blue eyes hooded, cheeks pink, breath ragged. They watch each other for what feels like a small eternity to Ian, and then Mickey tentatively grinds down against him.

Ian moans involuntarily, and Mickey bites his lip and does it again. Ian’s eyes roll back and he drops his head down to the pillow again as they close, and he let’s Mickey do whatever he wants. A few more dry humps, and that hot mouth is back on his.

He slips his hands lower, running them over Mickey’s pleasantly plump ass. They moan around each other’s tongues as Ian’s big hands knead and squeeze, while Mickey continues thrusting against him almost torturously slow.

Ian can’t believe this is happening. He really wasn’t sure he’d be able to have this with Mickey. . . or with _Harry_ , as he’d imagined him abstractly before he revealed the man behind the curtain. Despite his fantasy image of the provocateur being pretty off the mark, he was never disappointed with the reality. Quite the opposite. But the real person behind the alter ego was so fragile. Ian kept scaring him off, over and over again, and he couldn’t imagine a time when Mickey would run _to_ him instead of away.

He feels a hand come between them. Mickey is snaking it down his abs, tilting his body upward a bit so he can wriggle it lower until he’s groping Ian’s dick as it strains for release. For some fucking reason, he tenses up, pulling back and taking Mickey by the shoulders so he’ll let him talk.

“What’re you. . .” Ian gasps out, “What’re you doing? I mean. . . have you ever done this before?”

Mickey’s lips look so red and wet that it’s hard to concentrate. “No. Have you?”

Ian hesitates for a moment, but he’s not sure why. “Yeah. Just a few times, but. . . yeah.”

“What do you. . . I mean, how did you do it?”

“Um. . . well, the first time, I let him do it to me, but I didn’t really like it that much. Next couple times were with someone else, and I did it to him. It was. . . more my style I guess.” Mickey’s eyes are comically wide, but his hand is still on Ian’s clothed cock, it just isn’t moving anymore, and Ian hastens to add, “But, you don’t have to. . . I’m not saying you have to let me fuck you. I mean, there’s all kinds of stuff we can do. I could blow you first, if you want, and then you can decide if you wanna do more?”

“No.”

Ian gulps, then exhales exasperatedly. This was when the cold fucking shower was gonna get dumped all over him, of fucking course. He wipes a hand over his face, then reaches for Mickey’s hand to move it away from the sensitive hard-on still dancing around in his tight jeans.

“I mean. . . I don’t mean that I don’t wanna,” Mickey clarifies. “I do. I think I want you to do it to me.” Ian just stares at him questioningly. “To fuck me. I want you to fuck me.”

Ian is chomping at the bit for sex, just as any hot-blooded teenage boy would be, yet he’s still not completely sure that this is what Mickey really wants.

“I don’t know, Mickey. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that only last night, you were freaking out that we kissed. You pushed me away when I jokingly went for your pants. Now you’re grinding on me all horny, and grabbing at my dick. Like, it’s a nice change for me and everything, but I wanna make sure you’re doing this because you want to. Like, don’t do it if you think it’s just what I want.”

“Ian, I promise I want this. Do you know how long I’ve been repressing the fact that I want this? It’s been way too long. I never really think about it too much, you know. It’s just been there in the background, faded or something. I never tried. . . never tried to be with anyone. I mean, there were a couple girls I didn’t give a shit about that put their mouths on my dick once or twice, but I knew it was whatever. It felt good, but it didn’t feel. . . right. And likin’ what I like. . . I don’t know. . . my tastes don’t seem to jibe with the whole _gay_ thing.”

Ian snorts. “The gay thing? What’s _the_ _gay thing_ , pray tell?”

“You know. . . I don’t know. . . Just, I’m not like into that whole scene or whatever. Not my style.”

“Mickey. Liking who you like, which happens to be other guys, makes you gay. That’s it. There’s nothing else that goes along with it. No rules you’re forced to obey. No style you’re supposed to dress in. No scene you’re obligated to be a part of. No one’s gonna make you do or be anything you don’t want unless you let ‘em. You don’t have to define what or who you are right now, though, okay? We can just be together however you want. There’s time to worry about what it all means later.”

“So you’re not gonna have sex with me?”

“I already told you that it’s up to you. I just need to know you’re really sure. I’ve never taken anybody’s virginity before.”

Mickey quirks an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. The guys I told you about were a little bit older than me. I mean, maybe there’ve been some handjobs in the locker room, and a few blowjobs in dark closets and bathrooms, but. . .”

“I’ve never. . . I mean, I get it if it’s not appealing that I have no fuckin’ idea what I’m doin’.”

Mickey’s face looks so adorably crestfallen, and Ian tries to reassure him, nudging his chin up with the knuckle of his forefinger. “That’s not what I’m trying to say, okay? I don’t care what kind of experience you do or don’t have. That doesn’t matter to me. I just don’t wanna hurt you. I mean, having something up your ass for the first time can be a weird experience.”

Mickey blushes and averts his eyes. “I, uh. . . I may have. . . experimented a bit? I went to this sex shop with some of my friends back home one time, and when they weren’t paying attention, I may have lifted a few starter items.”

Ian can’t help his amusement. “What, like, _Intro to Anal_? _My First Dildo_?”

Mickey flushes a deeper shade of red, but laughs as well, smacking Ian on his defined chest. “Fuck off! I managed to get like the world’s smallest dildo, this vibrating egg thingie, and some lube. I only knew about the lube thing because of magazines. The ads in the back. Would’a sucked if I hadn’t known.”

Ian also can’t help his renewed interest. He puts his hands back on Mickey’s ass. “So you like it? You play with yourself a lot?”

“I mean. . . I guess I just jack off more often than not. It’s not something I do everyday, or even every week. But sometimes. . . I get all the stuff out and it’s really intense.”

“Yeah?” Ian asks, daring to dip a hand right down the middle of Mickey’s crack, pressing in a little where the cheeks part beneath his tight jeans.

Mickey’s breath hitches sexily, and Ian decides to take full control.

He grasps the back of Mickey’s neck, and crashes their lips together again, rolling them over forcefully so that he’s now on top. He pulls back to readjust them both, taking Mickey’s legs and placing them on either side of his body, first grabbing one sneaker by the heel and pulling it off to toss across the room, then the other. He takes the socks off too, because he’s not gonna have Mickey lose his virginity wearing dirty old white socks. He leaves his pants alone at first, swooping back down to kiss Mickey tenderly, trying to keep him at ease as he builds up to the big event.

Mickey begins to grow more comfortable with Ian’s body. He can tell, because now his hands are roaming everywhere. They become much less tentative and much more demanding.

Ian raises up, breathing heavily, watching Mickey’s face so intently as he finally undoes his pants. He reaches inside the front opening of Mickey’s boxers, and frees the hard dick waiting for him.

“Fuck,” Mickey whimpers around a gasp. His face looks fucking beautiful. He’s so turned on.

Ian looks down at the naked cock between them, taking it in hand once more and pumping slowly, with just the right amount of pressure. With every few passes, he goes lower, fondling Mickey’s balls. He licks his palm to make the slide easier and more pleasant.

Mickey’s eyes shut tight, and his head thrashes around on the pillow.

Ian sits up, removing his hand for a moment, and Mickey’s eyes open wide with worry. “Why’d you stop?”

“Not stopping,” he replies, “Just wanna get these pants off.”

He reaches for Mickey’s waistband and yanks off the jeans, then the boxers. He lowers himself against his body once more, rutting against his naked lower half with his own pants still firmly on.

Mickey kisses him, pulling him closer. Ian slides his hands up underneath Mickey’s tee shirt, fingertips skimming over velvety skin and hardened nipples. He draws back once more, and manages to yank the garment off over his head, tossing it to the floor with everything else. He dives back down quickly, recapturing Mickey’s hot lips as he lies completely open and exposed beneath a fully-clothed Ian. He continues humping against him, running his hands everywhere he can reach, just touching Mickey, not thinking of himself at all; a wet spot rapidly forming inside the rough denim.

Eventually, Mickey pushes him back, gasping for air, and eying him with trepidation.

“What?” Ian pants.

“You gonna take your clothes off anytime soon, Firecrotch, or are we never gonna get this show on the road?”

Ian’s mind is so hazed with lust and like, he hadn’t really noticed that he was, in fact, not making any moves to speed things up. He shakes his head a bit, as if to rid himself of the fog.

“Oh. Sorry! I didn’t even notice.”

“You didn’t notice the large rock hard boner you have fighting to burst out of your stupid goth jeans? The fuck is wrong with you?” He has a teasing smile.

Ian grins dumbly, blushing and dropping his forehead down in the curve of Mickey’s neck, lips ghosting against the sensitive skin right below his ear. “I guess I just can’t stop wanting to make you comfortable.”

“Uhhhh. . . Ian? I’m pretty sure I’ve never been this comfortable with another person in my entire fuckin’ life, okay? I want this. I ain’t lyin’ about that.”

Ian knows this. He really does. But still. . . all that rejection at first. . . plus, Mickey’s a virgin. . . he has confusing feelings about being gay. . . Ian can’t help it; it’s a little difficult to get out of his head.

“Are you sure?” he asks one final time, moving his head out of the crook of Mickey’s shoulder and meeting his eye.

“I’m fuckin’ 1,010% positive,” says Mickey, gently caressing the side of Ian’s face like he’s been doing it for years. “Besides. . . who knows what the fuck tomorrow’s gonna bring. If we do this broadcast tonight. . . it could end badly. I don’t wanna regret somethin’ I didn’t do when I had the chance. I won’t regret doin’ it with you, but I’ll be fuckin’ haunted if we stop now and it never happens. Can’t leave a wanted man hangin’ like that, Gallagher.”

“Really? You’re going with the ‘this could be my last night before prison, war, or death’ plea for sexual healing?”

“Hey, whatever I gotta do to get you on me. Makes it hotter, too, right?”

Ian laughs heartily, but it tapers off into a worried, melancholic expression. “You really think you’re gonna get arrested?”

Mickey shrugs. “They’re thirstin’ for my blood in the streets at this point. It’s gonna be a risk if you come with me.”

“Oh, I don’t mind coming with you,” Ian puns lamely, wiggling his eyebrows. Mickey slaps him on the cheek playfully, but before Ian can get indignant about it, he gets serious again. “Did you really burn everything?”

Mickey sees right through him, of course. “You mean, did I burn the letters you wrote to me?” He pauses dramatically, but Ian doesn’t move to affirm or deny. “No. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them in. I hid them somewhere safe. Somewhere in Mandy’s room, actually. Figured they wouldn’t toss all her shit looking for mine. They shouldn’t have any reason or need to.”

Ian feels touched by the gesture. He was so worried that Mickey had callously destroyed the chronology of Ian’s growing affection for him. He takes his written words very seriously, and could never bring himself to throw away a single page. He even keeps all the stuff he hates in a big ‘DISCARDED’ file full of failures, because he feels like those words deserve to be remembered too. He likes learning from his mistakes. It usually just comes down to a lack of inspiration. Those times when something has to be forced out. It’s never worth it, but it’s something. That’s always better than nothing.

“Thank you for saving them,” he says with great sincerity.

Mickey rolls his eyes, chuckles, and pushes him away. “Enough chit-chat.”

Ian sits up and unbuttons his shirt at last. He watches Mickey’s eye-line move downward with each new swath of exposed pale skin, and the happy trail that starts below his navel, as he continues down, slowly undoing each metal fastener of his button-up Levi’s. He’s not wearing any underwear, and the curly orange hairs get more prominent and thick the lower he goes. His hard-on is pressed to the left inside his pants, visibly outlining his length below the jut of his hipbone. Ian palms himself through the denim as Mickey licks his lips in anticipation, then he finally nudges it upward so that it pops out, slapping against his lower torso, framed by impeccably cut oblique muscles.

Mickey reaches out and squeezes it lightly, eliciting a loud moan from Ian. He closes his eyes tightly, allowing himself to surrender to the moment. He’s wanted this so badly, for months. And now he’s fucking getting it. He’s done being in his head about it. Mickey wants this too. So he’s gonna give it to him gladly.

  


* * *

  


Mickey is sure his heart has never beat this hard against his ribcage before. If you’d asked him just yesterday what the chances were that he’d be engaging in sexual acts with a super-hot guy in the very near future, he’d have probably said somewhere around 10 to 15% tops. He’s always been too shy at his core to really go after what he wants aggressively like that. But things were really starting to scare to him.

He wasn’t exaggerating when he’d told Ian he was afraid of going to jail. The proof is right there for all to see. They want to get him, and if they do get him, they’re gonna have to do something with him. Maybe his dad will come through unexpectedly and help save the day, but he can’t even depend on that, because his dad is a dickhead who cares way too much about his precious reputation to allow his embattled son to tarnish that image in any way; even by having the audacity to be in actual profound need for real help, and possibly money to cast off the demons chasing him.

Mickey’s in big fucking trouble.

So yeah, he’d come to Red for help with the Hard Harry stuff, because he felt like Ian was now a part of it all. He’s Mickey’s partner in crime, even if he’d never asked him to be in the first place. All his radio equipment is waiting downstairs in his Mom’s open-air Jeep, parked right outside the Gallagher house, which only goes to show that Mickey always had faith that Ian would come through for him. He never doubted him.

On the way over, which wasn’t a long drive at all, Mickey’s mind began to flash with fantasies of letting himself go and giving himself over to the desires he’s had churning inside him, desperate for some kind of release, for years now.

It was as if all of a sudden the answer just came to him: ‘ _I want to have sex. . . I want to have sex with Ian. . . I’m going to have sex with Ian. . . Tonight._ ’

Now, here he is, naked as the day he was born, cock leaking pre-cum against his lower belly, stroking the length of Ian’s impressive erection above him, watching his pretty face being overtaken by total desire. His shirt hangs limply off his shoulders, grazing against Mickey’s torso.

He moves his hand away, so he can use both to take Ian by the shoulders, and slide the shirt off his arms once and for all. “Get your damn pants off,” he orders, surprising himself at how demanding he’s being.

He understands why Ian was a little freaked out by Mickey’s unexpected turnaround from ‘I’ll just keep denying and avoiding everything’ to ‘there is literally no time left to fuck around and I’m gonna get what I want,’ but it’s forced him to have to be the aggressor, flipping their roles in a way he wasn’t expecting.

He feels like maybe he’s learning to embrace the side of himself that is pure, unadulterated Hard Harry. I mean, he also calls himself Happy Harry, so maybe there’s a lot more fucking metaphor there than he ever even intended.

To be like Harry. . . happy, hard, both, or otherwise, is what Mickey needs to learn how to do when there’s no mic in front of him, and no four walls protecting him, isolating him, separating him from the rest of the world. He needs to learn to mix those aspects into who he presents himself as, which is also just as much a part of him and who he is. . . he _is_ kinda shy and bookish, and he doesn’t wanna be the center of attention all the time. There’s a middle ground somewhere that’s just waiting to be discovered.

Ian rises from the bed to rid himself of his jeans at last, and Mickey holds his breath as he watches him move about the room. He’s only ever seen a fully naked guy in the showers at school (where he averts his eyes extra hard, lest he be spied looking), and in the fag rags he’s managed to pinch from various disreputable establishments over the years. He only has a few, and they are very well-worn. He keeps them hidden inside of a _Hustler_ and a couple of _Penthouse_ magazines. The guys in the shots are all large and oily, very muscular to the point where it’s just not Mickey’s style. Ian, though, he has a nice body, but it’s lean and well-proportioned. His muscle is well-defined, but not scary. He has a cute little ass, too, he notices with a smirk he can’t control.

He’s barely paying attention when a couple items hit the mattress next to him. He reaches over to inspect: lube and a condom.

When he looks back up, Ian is crawling back onto the bed, hovering over him with an impish grin. He kisses him one more time, then grabs the lube, flipping the cap and squirting some onto his fingers. It feels weird to be looking at him right now, so Mickey lets his eyes fall shut as someone else touches his asshole for the first time in his life.

Leave it to Ian to be extra gentle, though. He spends almost too much time just rubbing against him, circling around and over the tight ring of muscle. He gets one finger in, and Mickey hisses, tossing his head to the side and biting down on his lip. It’s so slow, but the pressure starts to feel good after a couple minutes. Ian adds another finger, and Mickey’s hard-on wanes considerably, so he reaches down to pull on his cock without even thinking about it. He gasps hard when suddenly Ian’s warm, wet mouth is around him, sucking and sliding on the tip of his dick as he jerks himself off, two long fingers pumping faster and faster inside of him.

He moans loudly, eyes shooting open, daring to take in the scene below. He’s grateful that Ian’s stereo is still making noise in the background, and he can’t help the glance he throws at the door in the corner. He meets Ian’s eye as the cock fall from his lips, shiny with spit.

“Don’t worry, I always keep it locked.” And he fucking winks at him. _Winks_. Mickey has always despised winkers. Like, who do they think they are? But Ian does it in this cute fucking way that just does things to him, and he can’t even be mad.

Suddenly, Ian’s sitting back on his haunches, Mickey’s legs splayed on either side of him. He rubs up the outside of Mickey’s thighs, then the insides, leaning in and biting the fat a few inches below his groin.

“You have hot legs, Mick,” declares Ian, licking the same spot, then kissing it. He reaches for the condom, opening the wrapper and handing it over for Mickey to take from him as he tosses the foil to the floor. “Put it on me.”

Mickey’s not sure why that’s so fucking hot, but it is. He takes it, and pretty much just follows the instructions he remembers from Sex Ed, because again, he’s never even put a condom on himself before. He rolls it slowly down Ian’s hard length, making sure to squeeze the tip and leave enough room for the ejaculation to come.

A thrill of excitement pulses through him, but he also feels very nervous. Ian’s dick is much bigger than anything Mickey’s ever shoved inside himself experimentally in the past.

Ian must’ve noticed the sudden shift in tension, because he’s right there with soothing words of reassurance. “Just relax. I’m gonna make this so good for you. If you want me to stop, just say so, okay?”

Mickey can’t bring himself to do more than nod rapidly. He can’t stop staring into Ian’s green eyes, flickering darkly in the blue light bathing them from above. He feels him lining up, the head of his cock brushing right against his opening.

_It’s happening._ There’s no turning back from this.

He feels that first push, and it burns. His body tries to reject the intrusion; push it back out, but he just sucks in a breath, and his eyes squeeze shut. Ian has one big hand holding his thigh, the other guiding his dick into Mickey, and once he’s managed to shimmy his way all the way in, inch by inch, he leans down again and kisses Mickey passionately, with a lot of tongue and teeth. He let’s Mickey adjust to his size, not moving at all below the waist.

When he pulls back again, Mickey opens his shiny blue eyes and stares openly once more.

“You okay?” Ian whispers.

Mickey nods. “Yeah. You feel so big.”

Ian flushes, another bashful smile blooming on his face. Mickey loves it when he has these kinds of reactions that are dissimilar to the ways he’s seen him present himself since they first started talking. “Thanks.”

Ian kisses him briefly a couple more times, then leans up on his arms, finally dragging his dick back as he begins thrusting inside of him. Mickey hisses, furrowing his brow, sucking on his lower lip.

“Still good?” asks Ian.

“Yeah. . . Keep goin’.”

Ian picks up the pace a bit, and Mickey manages to put his hands somewhere more useful than the space beside him on the bed. He runs them across Ian’s back, down to his ass, and back up. It seems to encourage him.

“Fuck, Mickey, you’re so tight. You feel amazing.”

Mickey wants to say something self-deprecating. Like, yeah, dude, you’re banging a virgin. Obviously it’s not gonna be all that loose. Still, it feels too good to be arguing over petty details at the moment, and he doesn’t want to keep drawing attention back to the fact that he has no idea what’s he’s doing.

His hands wind themselves into Ian’s auburn hair, and he forces him down into another kiss. He gasps around Ian’s tongue when he feels the friction their lower torsos are now providing to his cock. He moans loudly again.

Ian seems to understand, and presses his body down harder as he fucks him. The dual sensations are about to start making supernovas burst behind his eyelids.

The moaning gets louder. Mickey can’t believe he’s never done this before. Why hasn’t he ever done this before? It’s amazing. It’s the most visceral, insane thing he’s ever done. It’s like nothing else matters on earth right now except this.

Life is for nothing else. This is all there is.

Ian pulls away, and Mickey is about to freak out, but is quickly calmed. “Flip over. It’ll be better for you.”

Mickey barely has to do much, though, because Ian practically manhandles him into position, so that he’s on his hands and knees.

He’s about to feel weird about Ian kneeling behind him, openly staring at his recently devirginized hole, but he doesn’t get the time, because that dick is right there, pushing inside of him again.

“Oh, fuck!” exclaims Mickey, as Ian drapes his entire body over his back, pumping his hips in earnest.

He feels like he’s stretched impossibly wide, and so fucking full. He doesn’t understand what that is. That feeling of like. . . completeness or something. . . but he fucking loves it. Relishes it. Wants it so badly. All the time.

He starts pushing his hips back into Ian. That gets a sexy, long groan out of the redhead, and he snaps his pelvis forward more powerfully. Then he reaches around to wrap a hand around Mickey’s hard, dribbling dick, and he about loses his goddamn mind.

“Ian!” he cries lamely. He doesn’t know what else to say. Everything happening. . . all that surrounds him. . . all he can think about is pleasure. Pleasure given to him by Ian.

Ian. _Ian_.

He can’t stay supported on his hands any longer. He’s too blissed out, and his strength is rapidly dwindling down to nothing. He let’s his upper body fall to the mattress, and the angle of Ian’s big cock inside of his ass gets even better. That big hand is still working Mickey’s dick too.

He can’t think straight. He can’t think. . .

“Oh, Mickey,” Ian moans brokenly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. . .” And Mickey’s coming harder than he’s ever come in his entire life by about a thousand nautical miles. He’s grunting and moaning like some other person that isn’t him at all.

Ian starts thrusting harder and faster, incoherently mumbling. Mickey feels him spreading his ass cheeks out, like maybe he’s watching himself slide in and out of his hole. That sounds so fucking hot that Mickey could probably come again if he wasn’t already spent.

Ian moans loudly, pumping his hips slow and deep, and Mickey can actually feel the cock twitching inside of him as it empties jizz into the condom.

And then he’s lying limply with all of Ian’s weight on top of him, sticky and sweaty, as their chests heave with their labored breathing. Mickey can feel the blood rushing between his ears, muting out all other sound in the room  momentarily .

His ass throbs, and he realizes Ian is still inside of him. He can’t bring himself to speak, so he just reaches a limp hand behind him and pats the back of Ian’s thigh in an attempt to spur him into action.

“Sorry,” Ian pants against the side of his neck, gripping at Mickey’s hips, and pulling out swiftly. They both gasp at the final dragging sensation.

He feels Ian kiss his temple, then drop down next to him on his back, so he straightens his body out and stretches on his belly.

“Jesus Christ,” he mumbles into the pillow.

Ian chuckles. “I know.”

“I feel like I ran a marathon with a dildo up my ass, or somethin’.”

That brings a guffaw. “Think this was a lot more fun.” He pats Mickey’s ass, and squeezes it. “Mmmm, bouncy.”

Mickey smiles, turning his head in Ian’s direction. “Don’t get any fuckin’ ideas. Bouncy or not, this ass is gonna need a good long rest.”

“Awww, did I wreck it?”

Mickey snorts. “Shut the fuck up, Red. Don’t ruin it.”

He titters. “Fine, I won’t. Can’t believe you were a virgin. You took it like a pro.”

“What did I just say?”

“Okay, okay. . .” he drifts off and a comfortable silence settles in as they lie there coming back down to earth.

“Your angry parents aren’t gonna come bursting in here, are they?” Mickey finally asks.

“Pssh, doubt it. Would be an interesting feat to pull off, considering they haven’t been around in months.”

“How come?”

“That’s a complicated answer. . .”

“Oh. You don’t have to–”

“No, it’s fine. I mean, Mandy knows about it, but I don’t talk about it much really. My parents are a total train-wreck. They’ve been living off my grandparent’s inheritance money for like a decade now. They barely stay here. My older sister, Fiona, runs the house; takes care of all the younger ones. Lip used to help out more, but now he’s totally checked out, trying his best to ruin all his advantages.”

“Lip? Wait. . . isn’t he that bleach-blond wannabe punk dude from school?”

Ian chortles. “The one and only. He just started dressing like that last year. Fucked his hair up over the summer. We used to be best friends, but something’s in the way now. I don’t know what all it is. I mean, I know some. . . like, you know. . . the gay thing, or whatever.”

“He give you shit about it?”

“Nah. I mean, I haven’t told him yet. It’s just been on my mind. Don’t know how he’ll take it.”

“Well, he looks like a douchebag, so I wouldn’t fret too much.”

“How come you don’t dress like a punk? It’s like 90% of what you play on your show. I kinda thought you’d have more style. No offense.”

“Eh, I don’t know. . . I guess I just don’t give a shit about clothes, you know? I prefer not to draw attention to myself. To me, clothing is just functional.”

“Yeah, I get it. I guess I do like to try and stand out. I dress the way I dress to express myself,” he snorts, and slaps a hand to his face. “That sounded really lame, but you know what I mean. It’s the fucking doldrums here. Everybody looks the same. I have to do something to differentiate myself from the rest of the herd, you know?”

“How old are you, anyway?” Mickey’s been meaning to ask.

“16. I’m a junior.”

“I’m 17.”

“I know. You’re a senior, and Mandy’s a sophomore.”

“So you and Lip are only a year apart?”

“Yep. Irish twins. He was gonna graduate a year before me, but now it looks like we’ve both fucked ourselves.”

“You didn’t do shit. The administration fucked you both for reasons that shouldn’t even matter. We’re gonna nail the assholes. We have to.”

“Look, Mickey, I appreciate the sentiment, and I’m down to fight with you. I’ve got nothing to lose at this point. Just don’t be upset if we can’t change anything. These people are entrenched in the system. It’s gonna take a lot to topple their regime.”

“They ain’t shit, Gallagher. That’s how we’re gonna get ‘em. They know they don’t have legal recourse for half the crap they get up to. I may have to go down, but I’m fuckin’ takin’ all them with me.”

He feels Ian’s hand soothe over his back, as he adjusts his body, so that he’s on his side and able to look Mickey in the face. “Can I ask you something?”

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah, of course.”

“When did you know you were attracted to guys?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just never thought about it much until a couple years ago, but even then, I didn’t really think I was. . .”

“Gay?”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, no one ever talks about it, unless they’re bringing up AIDS, or spewing shit about ‘abominations’ and the Bible. I didn’t know anyone who was. . . I never talked to anyone about it.”

“You were never attracted to your friends?”

“No way. First off, not much attractive about those dudes. Secondly, they were all highly into pussy. I could just tell by the way they acted when we looked at porn, or when they were hitting on some girl at school who didn’t usually get a lot of attention. I thought some guys at school were hot, but I never had like a crush or anything. Probly just too scared for that.”

“What about your parents? They suspect anything?”

“Fuck, I hope not. My dad would most likely throw me outta the house.”

“Shit, you really think so?”

“I know he wouldn’t get it. Don’t know how far he’d go, but I never really planned on risking it. Well, I never thought I’d act on it. At least, you know, now. Maybe later when I wasn’t under his roof anymore.”

“Well, you can always crash here. We’re practically a family of orphans. Our parents just haven’t happened to kick the bucket yet.”

“Goddamn, Gallagher. You’re parents are dead to you and shit?”

“Might as well be. They never did much for me, or any of us. Luckily the house is paid for, and Fiona got a trust fund from our grandparents too. Lip and I will get them later. Just enough to pay for the college years, I think. If it wasn’t for them, we’d be fucked. Probly destitute, crammed together in some shack trying to survive. My parents can burn in Hell for all I care.”

Mickey runs a thumb across Ian’s cheek, and their eyes meet. “I’m sorry.”

Ian gives him a ghost of a sad smile. “It’s okay. Only life I know.”

Mickey glances over to Ian’s alarm clock. “9:45. I guess it’s now or never.”

Ian studies his face, then leans in for a chaste kiss. “Now.”

They rise from the bed, shuffling around the room, gathering their clothes and dressing, throwing cute smiles each other’s way intermittently.

Ian turns off his stereo and lights, then leads Mickey out his bedroom door this time. There’s a pretty brunette girl with big eyes sitting on a couch with a small black kid, and Ian just tosses her a swift, “See you later, Fi!” as he pulls him out the door.

They reach the Jeep he left at the end of the driveway, and Mickey pulls back the tarp covering his stereo equipment, showing Ian the rigged the transmitter, powered by a portable battery that looks like it’s meant for a car.

“What do you need me to do?” asks Ian.

“I need you to drive,” Mickey replies with a smirk.

“Oh, cool. Like the getaway driver?”

“Exactly like that. You saw those FCC vans. We can’t stay in one place too long, or they’ll find us. If we can stay on the go, a few steps ahead of ‘em, we may have a chance.”

Ian nods earnestly. “Got it.”

Mickey hesitates, grasping his forearm. “You sure about this? I’m telling you now, if we get caught, I don’t know what’s gonna happen. You could end up in juvie.”

“I get it, Mickey. I wanna do this. Let’s go.”

Before he can protest any further, Ian’s jumping up into the driver’s seat enthusiastically, and Mickey tosses him the keys. He cranks the ignition with a big smile, and speeds off into the night.

At 10pm on the dot, Mickey starts broadcasting.

“Yo, Mr. FCC Man! Watts! Herschel Watts! I’m sorry your parents were terrible people who liked giving their children horrible names, but it’s sad that it’s caused you to grow up and turn into this fascist with a bad toupee that has nothing better to do with his time than harass teenagers who’re just trying to reach out and talk to people about what’s ailing us all. Maybe tonight someone’ll snatch that wig off and throw it in a bonfire where it belongs.” Ian is laughing beside him, but doing a good job of concentrating on the road. They zoom around curves up in the hills, going in circles, but never staying in the same section of town. “But fuck that guy, there’s more important fish to fry tonight. See, I’ve obtained another interesting list from the confidential files of Hubert Humphrey High, and I really think you all ought’a hear it.”

He starts reading out all the names of people who’ve been expelled and suspended already that year. White nuisances aside, many have hispanic-sounding names. He wonders why that is. He can make an educated guess.

  


* * *

  


The administration of HHHH, plus the majority of the teaching faculty, are congregated to one side of the football field which has been flooded to form a sea of parked cars with students pouring out of them, sitting on the hoods and roofs, lounging in the grass and the metal stands. The miscreants are even getting interviewed by newspeople, who have their own trucks set up on the opposite side, like the visiting team.

There are black and white police cruisers scattered throughout, yet Principal Karib is unable to get the cops to move everyone along. There’re too many young people for them to be able tohandle making random arrests, and there’s little else they can threaten them with. The best they can do is stay in containment mode.

Linda’s eye is twitching now; a tic that can’t be stopped no matter how hard she tries to. Her only hope now is that these incompetent moron investigators can shut down Happy Harry tonight, restoring order to her universe. She’s been so frazzled, she’s lost control of almost everything she knows. She’s barely even seen her kids lately.

She’s standing arm in arm with Mr. Morris and Mr. Devers when Sheila Walker approaches with school commissioner Terry Milkovich in tow.

“What are you doing here?” asks Karib brusquely. “You were dismissed.”

“Thank you for reminding me, Linda, it’s just that I’ve been talking with Mr. Milkovich here, and I think he’d be interested in getting your take on some strange files I discovered when I was packing up all my work belongings.” She holds up a small stack of papers grouped in manila folders. “For example, during the very first week of school, you flagged every single student with a low SAT score and started a file on them. Why?”

“You stole school files!” Linda cries indignantly, eyes flashing dangerously.

“Answer her,” demands Terry, stepping forward as he skims through the documents in the first folder. “According to these, you expelled over twenty kids in the first thirty days of the 1990 semester.”

“And the ones you couldn’t expel, you harassed until they dropped out,” adds Sheila, turning back to Terry. “She and her lackeys have been weeding out undesirable students after every government grant the school received, probably for years now. They’ve just gotten sloppier about it as they kept getting away with pushing it farther and farther.”

Terry is still sorting through the documents in his hands, now on the third file. “And you kept expelled students on the rolls,” he says as he reads on. “That’s illegal.”

“That money was for the school, not for me,” defends Linda. “It was _all_ for the good of the school!”

“What about the students you tossed out?” asks Sheila, disgustedly. “Those kids had rights!”

“They were losers!” spits Karib.

“Troublemakers,” adds Morris, not very helpfully.

“They’re just kids!” rings in Mr. Devers, surprising the hell out of everyone.

“How about the fact that almost half the students listed are of Mexican and Latino descent?” adds Sheila, hoping this will be the final nail in the coffin. “You think that doesn’t paint a sharper picture of your brand of discrimination?”

“I don’t regret a single action,” Linda states staunchly, refusing to concede a single point.

“This activity is criminal,” Terry replies, trying to get it through her thick skull. “I’m suspending you, effective immediately.”

“You can’t do that!” she cries defensively, to no avail. She can see Sheila’s smirking hippy face in her periphery and she wishes she could smack it right off her head.

“I think I just did,” says Terry, haughtiness now transferring over to him.

  


* * *

  


Around twenty minutes into the broadcast, things start to get a bit hairy. The sounds of sirens become ever present in the background as Ian drives Mickey around one mountain, then down into the valley, then up another. They’re fighting off the FCC men, but just barely.

Ian skids around a rough curve, sending Mickey crashing into him across the divider, and causing him to accidentally kick the voicebox modulator he has with him in the front, his mic rigged to pass through it, then plug back into the rest of the gear. It crunches up against the underside of the dashboard, then back to the floor.

“Shit! Sorry!” curses Ian as the broadcast goes silent for a moment.

“Motherfuck, my harmonizer is busted! I can’t disguise my voice.” He gets flustered, on the verge of panic, because he’s nowhere near done with what he has to say tonight.

He hears and feels the truck skidding to a halt on the side of the dusty road, and Ian is grabbing at his arms and his face. “Mick, look at me.” He can’t focus. “Look at me!” He snaps his eyes up and bores into Ian’s. “You’re okay.” He is. “It’s gonna be fine.” It will be. “Do you really need to hide your voice anymore?”

Ian then gestures over the side of the cliff, driving forward some more, so that they’re overlooking the school football field, all lit up and crawling with kids. It would look more natural if the media weren’t surrounding them on all sides, with cop cars sprinkled in liberally, dotting the ocean of unruly teens in an unpleasant way.

“Jesus!” exclaims Mickey, standing up in his seat and leaning against the front windshield to observe the full breadth of the scene below. “Look at this.” He’s kind of in awe. He still can’t really fathom the amount of reach he has within the community after such a short time. He can’t believe that all these people are rooting for him, and that a whole bunch of other people are waiting to capture him like he’s some kinda outlaw in the Old West. There’s only one choice he can make. “I’m going on without it.”

Ian gasps audibly where he’s stood up beside him, then reaches over and hugs him close, placing a small kiss on the side of his neck. “Do it,” he whispers right in his ear.

They pull back and smile at one another as Mickey grabs his mic and flips the switch so that he’s broadcasting once more.

“Okay. This is really me now,” Mickey’s voice booms out in the distance. People have full-sized speakers set up in flat truck beds down below, stirring up a big echo between the hills. “No more hiding.” It gets very quiet. “We’re all worried. We’re all in pain. That comes with having eyes and ears. Just remember one thing. . . it can’t get any _worse_. It can only get better. High school is the bottom. Bein’ a teenager sucks, but that’s the point. Surviving is the whole point. Quitting isn’t gonna make you strong, living will. So just hang on and hang in there. I know all about the hatin’ and the sneerin’. I’m a member of the _‘why bother?_ ’ generation too. But why did I bother to come out here tonight? Why did you? Because it’s time. It begins with us. Not parents, or politicians, or teachers, but with us. With you and me. The ones who need it most. The ones who need some healing. I believe the world is calling out for the healing it so desperately needs, and that I’ve finally started to feel. . .” he pauses pointedly, gazing at Ian with emotion, “for the first time.”

Ian smiles brightly, right as a police helicopter whooshes up over the hillside, kicking up a sandstorm all around them as it shines its blinding spotlight on the Jeep. He quickly jumps into gear, starting the car again and punching it. Police cruisers begin boxing them in, to the point where their only recourse is to off-road it down the red clay mountainside.

“Hang the fuck on!” Ian hollers, and Mickey throws on his seatbelt, grabbing at the _‘oh shit!’_ bar with one hand, while fisting the mic in a death grip with the other.

They’re chased down the hill by cop cars in a blaze of glory dramatic enough for Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid, and despite knowing that this is the end, Mickey can’t help the thrill that runs through him. Not just from the chase, but the fact that he feels sort of powerful. He’s having a fucking effect on things, and he’ll get to say his piece about it all.

Soon enough, they’re right down there in the midst of everything, and Harry’s identity is revealed to all who get close. He’s yelling out some kind of ramble into the mic, and he’s not entirely sure what the words are. He’s on some strange autopilot where his mouth is moving faster than the thoughts can get to his brain. “Seize the air! Steal it! It’s yours! Speak out! They can’t stop you! Find your voice and use it! Keep this thing going! Take the airwaves! It’s your life! Take charge of it! Try it! Try everything! Spill your guts out! Say ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ a million times! Or don’t! You decide! Keep the air alive! Turn it up!”

It’s not long until they’re unable to drive any further, and Ian barely has time to put the truck in park before they’re swamped by their peers. People are yelling at him from all sides, but suddenly he hears Mandy’s unmistakable voice calling out his name above the din. He jumps down out of the Jeep, fighting his way in her general direction. They meet in the middle, breathless.

“Holy fucking shit, Mickey! You’re him?” she shouts, eyes wide and full of both worry and wonder.

“I’m him,” he nods, and he hears Ian calling out to him, heaving a path toward where they stand. He just hopes the crowd can keep the pigs at bay just a little bit longer.

Ian reaches them, wrapping an arm over each of their shoulders and pulling them both close. Mickey feels an overwhelming sense of relief. He almost wants to sob in gratitude. For this boy. For everyone around him.

He’s glad it’s over.

He pulls back and looks both Mandy and Ian square in the face. “Promise to come visit me, okay?”

Mandy looks confused for a split second when, as if summoned, some uniform is grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and bringing the metal clasp of a handcuff around the wrist that had just seconds ago been resting on Ian’s shoulder.

They’re reading him his Miranda rights, but he’s trying to see what’s happening to Ian. He runs into a solid body, and glancing up, it’s the last person in the world he wants to deal with right now.

“Dad,” he mutters in surprise.

“Tell me this is a godforsaken joke,” he bites out like a threat.

“Sir! Out of the way!” shouts the cop leading him, tightening the grip on his arm so that it’s sure to leave bruises.

“I’m talkin’ to my son!” Terry yells back directly in the man’s face, then leans back toward Mickey menacingly. “This is the last time you embarrass me,” he hisses into his ear. “You’re on your own.”

Mickey almost wants to laugh. Might as well have actually said, ‘No son of mine. . .’ just like he’d always imagined. A second cop has materialized to push him around the unmovable pillar that is his irate father, and he finds himself being shoved into an honest-to-god paddy wagon. People are shouting their encouragement, but Mickey can’t hear anything anymore. He thinks he may have gone temporarily deaf or something. That’s probably a thing, right? Hysterical deafness or something. All he cares about is seeing Ian. Maybe he’ll be able to hear again if he can just make sure he’s still okay.

His silent pleas are answered less than a minute later, when Ian is shoved unceremoniously into him as he hovers at the door of the police van, trying to look out. He sees Mandy again, and then his father.

He makes a decision.

He puts his fist in the air like some genuine leader of some real live revolution, and embraces all the cliches of the moment. He’s earned it.

“Stay hard!” he shouts. “Talk loud!”

And with that, he turns to Ian and mashes their mouths together in the style of true romance, to the varying sounds of scandalized groans and gasps, punctuated with enthusiastic catcalls and whoops. It lasts a grand total of maybe 20 seconds, before a cop slams the heavy doors closed on their spontaneous public display of affection.

Ian giggles at him in the dark, before an overhead light flickers on. “Most epic first date ever,” he jests.

Mickey can’t fucking believe this idiot has the ability to genuinely tickle him at a time like this, but here he is, laughing his ass off to the point that he stumbles back into the seat awkwardly and falls to the ground. A split second later, they hit a bump, and Ian comes careening down next to him.

“It’s not a real date unless you get arrested,” Mickey jokes back, relishing Ian’s goofy guffaws.

He’s glad that it’s over, but he’s fucking elated that it’s just the beginning.

  


* * *

  


_. . .The Aftermath. . ._

  


The shitstorm that hits their town, spilling over into Scottsdale, and even as far as Phoenix, turns everything into an overblown circus twice as large as the one first assembled by Hard Harry’s radio presence.

Ian has the distinct pleasure of watching Principal Bitch-Ass Linda Karib eat shit publicly on numerous occasions, first when she’s officially ousted for good from the school administration, then throughout her trial, at the end of which she got house arrest and a large fine. At first, Ian’s mad that she gets off so lightly, even though her reputation is now forever stained. But after thinking on it a while, he mostly just feels bad for her kids being subjected to her tyrannical ways on a constant 24/7 basis without reprieve. All he can wish for is that she’s given up hope after everything, and gets cut down to the point where her kids overpower her, using their wits and wills to drive her absolutely insane for the 6 months she can’t leave the premises for.

Lip has no problem at all pressing charges to snitch on Vice Principal Fuckwit Ed Morris, and Sheila Walker corroborates his testimony on the veep’s unwarranted assault of a minor. That lands dear old Ed in the slammer for a solid 30 days, which is something. He has no job to go back to either, after all.

Terry Milkovich gets stuck in the peculiar situation of being partially responsible for providing evidence of wrong-doing at a high school he’d recently taken jurisdiction over, while also facing the unenviable discovery that his own son had been the mystery problem child broadcaster right under his very nose that whole time. With the theft of unsecured official documents in his possession, they have sufficient grounds to terminate, and Terry is forced to pull strings back home, trying to get back into the old school system he’d moved on from. There’s nothing left for him there, though, and Mandy comes over one day to gleefully recountto Ian that her dad had been forced into selling used cars, because no one in his field will touch him with a ten-foot pole. She thinks that it suits his fake-ass, fucked-up personality well, and is convinced he’s now fulfilling his destiny.

Mandy immediately gets on board with Ian and Mickey’s relationship, as does Lip, and eventually the whole Gallagher sibling clan. He regales the packed living room with the interwoven tale of Harry/Mickey and Red/Ian one evening before family dinner. His brother Carl starts looking at him like he’s some kind of god by the end of it.

Luckily for everyone, Mickey behaves well while detained. Despite being sentenced to 10 to 12 months in the juvenile detention center a couple hours north of Paradise Valley, his lawyer had predicted he’d only do 6 to 8. He was lucky she’d taken an interest in his causes, of which there were a few when all was said and done.

His father had stayed true to his word, and hadn’t lifted a finger to help Mickey out in his defense. It was all Ian and Mandy, rallying the ACLU, attracting the interest of some big shot liberal attorneys, then guilt-tripping his mother into helping Mickey stay cared for on the inside. He got the lightest possible sentence, considering everything they tried to throw at him. Of course it helped that he’d managed to unearth a long pattern of criminal and negligent behavior on behalf of the staff at his school, which led to some interesting times for a lot of the adults he’d roasted over the airwaves.

Ian’s still so proud of him. He hates that Mickey is behind bars, but the fact that he’s stood by his principles and never wavered. . . how he just does his time without complaint, never resenting Ian for his freedom. He’s the strongest person Ian knows.

Ian is reinstated at school in a mass action which gives every single affected student that first semester a second chance, really in an effort to avoid paying out on massive suits against the district during the scandal that ousted every single higher up at HHHH and the entire upper branch of the school board overseeing them. Kooky-ass Miss Sheila wins her job back easily, and Lip is back to seeming to give a shit, even if he doesn’t give up on the dirtbag punk aesthetic. He helps Ian with his math-based classes just like he used to, and they both make a pact to stop ditching class. They keep each other in line.

For his role in aiding and abetting Mickey the night he evaded arrest while broadcasting illegally, Ian had been sentenced to 120 hours of community service, which meant 12 weekends given up to collect trash in the heat for 5 hours a day when the sun seemed highest above him in the sky. So yeah, he feels a little guilty. He makes Mandy drive him upstate to see Mickey every single week. Ian finds it cute that the siblings have reconnected now that one of them is physically restrained from being too close, and forced to keep away. Mandy’s also found a little righteous indignation of her own over the way her parents disowned Mickey in his time of greatest need. She now carries that fiery flame inside her that had fueled Mickey in the months leading up to his arrest. Ian keeps an eye out to make sure he doesn’t end up with his other favorite Milkovich behind bars anytime soon.

The Gallagher brothers are back on track to graduate on schedule, and even get decent shots at good colleges, but Mickey on the other hand, refuses to graduate from an institution inside of a state correctional facility. He falls behind a grade for this reason alone. He has big ideas about sticking it to his piece of shit old man, and making it into an Ivy League school in spite of everything. He studies independently in the interim, and plans on repeating his senior year with Ian, after which they’re gonna move somewhere back east, maybe near the coast, and go to college together.

Even though they’ve had such limited time actually together, Ian can’t imagine himself without Mickey anymore. He supposes it’s silly to be so intense about someone when he’s so young, but there’s an undeniable connection between them, and after all they’ve shared, he doesn’t see how he could find anyone that would make him feel half of what Mickey’s been able to anytime in the near future. He’s pretty sure he’s totally gone on the guy. He stays true to him the whole time he’s away, and he knows Mickey does too. They keep the flame kindled with dirty phone calls and pen-written notes full of honest thoughts and feelings.

Mickey’s still a month away from his looming release date when he turns 18, so Ian writes him a rare filthy letter on that old familiar red stationary. It’s a few pages long and hand delivered. Mickey can’t stop smiling and licking his lips in anticipation of reading it alone in his cell. Mandy gets disgusted, then angry, eventually leaving so that Ian can eye-fuck her brother as hard as he pleases during the remaining few minutes of visitation time.

He knows Doreen Milkovich goes up to see Mickey about once a month, but Ian thinks it mostly just makes him sad. Still, he wants to keep Mickey’s spirits up so that he’ll stay on his path to certain freedom and accomplish all his lofty goals. Ian will help him in any way he can. Even if that means keeping his mother in his life. She puts money in Mickey’s commissary account, and makes sure he’s not mistreated. That’s good enough for Ian at the moment.

Seven long months roll slowly by.

Mickey gets out right before school is let out for the summer, which Ian is pumped about, because he’ll have more time in the day to lavish attention upon his returning hero. He wants to give Mickey all the time and attention he missed while he was away.

Ian insists on moving Mickey into the Gallagher household until he can find somewhere else to stay, and he asks Mickey’s mother to drop off all his boxes while Terry’s busy at work one day. Ian makes room in the shed for most of it, but stores the more personal day-to-day things in a corner of his own room. He knows Mickey will have to find a place away from him, and that they shouldn’t be shacked up quite yet, but he convinces him to put off looking and asking around until a couple blissful weeks have passed, during which Mickey continues taking running leaps away from his sexless youth.

He ends up moving into a place with Mandy’s older college boyfriend, and gets a part-time job in a record store in Scottsdale, with his mother funneling him guilt money from her personal savings account to make up the difference in what he needs to get by in terms of bills and food.

The record shop holds Mickey in high esteem, appreciating what he represents, after all he accomplished combatting the man. It’s the only indie place in the vicinity, and Mickey gets to play whatever he wants when he’s behind the counter. Ian can even come in and hang out whenever, and no one tells him off for loitering. The owner and the staff even know that Mickey and Ian are together, and it’s all good. They’re free to be themselves without scrutiny or judgment. Ian likes to stand around initiating arguments about bands for fun, trashing people he knows will get a rise out of Mickey and/or other customers and clerks that may be in the vicinity.

They graduate together as planned, but don’t quite get into the same schools. They do, however, end up getting accepted to two good colleges in the same neighborhood. Mickey gets into UPenn, spiting his dad in the manner he’d always dreamed of, and Ian gets into Drexel.

They move to Philadelphia.

The first year, they have their own dorm rooms, but they spend most nights together at one or the other’s, and by sophomore year, they have a small studio together that’s almost exactly equal distance from both universities.

Mickey gets pretty into political science, which surprises him for some reason, but not Ian. He can totally picture Mickey as some young, hip, community organizer. He’s also been into contemporary art, particularly of the graffiti variety. Go figure. He gets to whet his appetite for the illegal by tagging the city late at night, while Ian is up reading novels and writing papers for his lit courses. Every once in a while, he comes barging through the door out of breath, glistening with sweat, and red in the face, and Ian knows that means he was chased by the cops. It always makes Mickey horny as hell, and Ian pretends to be mad at him for his blatant risk-taking for about 5 minutes before he’s swept up into the whole fantasy and being ridden into the mattress like the world is about to end.

It’s probably weird, but they hardly ever fight. Not about anything real, anyway. There’s always that petty bickering that starts to happen after you’ve been around someone for too long and gotten to know them too well, but when it comes to genuine conflict, they’re lucky to have little.

The most important thing of all is that they’re happy. They can say that, and completely mean it. Whatever life decides to throw at them, and whatever they throw at it, none of it matters right now.

They’re happy.

  


  


*

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> [Tumblr ❤](http://thevioletjones.tumblr.com/)


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